


Excalibur

by ciaconnaa



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: A Happy Ending, Gen, Hallucinations, Secret Identities, hideouts and life on the run but most importantly, peter parker also needs to rest Please Let Him Rest, slow build but by slow build i mean a slow unraveling?, this is the peter parker show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19840717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciaconnaa/pseuds/ciaconnaa
Summary: Life after his European field trip isn't the smoothest transition. Sure, his new relationship with MJ is great, and the buzz of Spider-Man's heroics is a nice cherry on top as well. But the paranoia of being tricked prickles at his every nerve. His phone, his laptop, and all the cameras of the world suddenly feel like they're pointed at him, all the time. It's not rational, he knows this, but Peter can't help it. Quentin Beck really messed with his brain. Reality suddenly isn't a constant anymore. He sees things - people - that can't be real.Then the world finds out he's Spider-Man, and Peter's framed for a crime he didn't commit. His world shifts, again, and he's on the run, trying to clear his name and keep his grip on reality.It'd be a hell of a lot easier if Tony Stark's ghost didn't show up at every bump and turn and talk his ear off.





	1. Black Mirror

Despite the sticky heat, Peter insists on holding Michelle’s hand.

The city air is downright _rancid._ Everything is stale, yet the odd and putrid smells of New York waft underneath his nose as if there’s some calm and coastal breeze blowing through. They two of them are dressed for the occasion: Peter in shorts he rarely wears and Michelle in some patterned minidress. The big, clunky, sweaty boots though - those she never ditches. 

They have no real plan - he suggested the impromptu date simply because he wanted to walk, wanted to talk, wanted to be near her as much as she would allow. And even with the heat, she’s unusually bouncy, swaying towards and away from him in hopes of catching shadows and breathing in air that doesn’t smell like the population’s collective B.O. But she always keeps a vice grip on his hand. It’s not until they come across an ice cream shop - worn, sad, but definitely a neighborhood fave - that she finally drops it. She pulls a face as she wipes her palm on his sleeve; Peter laughs when her pout deepens, unhappy with how sweaty her hand still is, and she wipes her palm on him _again,_ this time down the front of his shirt. With one arm, he holds the door to the ice cream shop, and with the other he pulls Michelle closer to him - he tastes salt when he gives her cheek a kiss.

The ice cream shop is _heaven_ with it’s necessary air conditioning. Peter and Michelle have lucked out in their timing as the shop is almost empty. There’s a father with his daughter in the far corner, having a grand old time stealing licks of each other’s single scoop cones.

In a rare moment of childlike antics, Peter gets to watch as Michelle crouches down and sticks both palms on the freezer display, her nose nearly pressed to the glass. The store is playing some 80’s pop song he doesn’t recognize, but Michelle bobs her head to synth beat anyway. Finally, she jabs a finger to the glass. She looks up at him in a squint and asks, “Cherry vanilla or mint chocolate?”

Peter pretends to contemplate while he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. “Cherry vanilla,” he says, because he knows Michelle likes everything cherry: cherry soda, cherry chocolates, those weird foreign cherry flavored candies he’s only ever seen sold at that one bodega next to Delmar’s deli. Besides, he’s a sucker, so he’s going to get the mint for himself so she can have both anyway.

Michelle doesn’t call him out on it, nor does she argue with letting him pay - they’ve been out on little low budget dates every day for the past week and have fallen into an easy back and forth pattern of whose turn is it to get the bill. She picks the spot furthest away from the father-daughter pair and crumples into the uncomfortable metal chair. Peter takes the seat beside her, as close as he can get without bumping shoulders, but still, Michelle shifts. The chair makes an awful screech against the tile and she gives them more space before she kicks her feet up on his lap, giving him a timid smile.

Then her face becomes comically stoic before she swipes her finger through her ice cream and dabs a chunk of it on Peter’s nose.

His face wrinkles and his eyes go cross-eyed looking down at his own face. It earns him a genuine, ugly snicker from Michelle, one that has her snorting when he tries to lick it clean off with his tongue. He manages only a small taste but that’s enough for him. “I forgot how much I _don’t_ like cherry vanilla,” he gripes, reaching for a napkin in the holder that sits on the center of the small table.

His girlfriend is faster though, and she swipes the napkins out of his reach before she lets her legs fall off his lap and leans his way. “It’s a good thing I do,” she reminds him before she licks the rest of the ice cream off the bridge of his nose.

“MJ,” he whines, scrubbing at his nose with his palm. She’s full on cackling now and Peter is blushing to the tips of his ears, so he gives her a playful shove in retaliation. However, she plays up the theatrics and pretends that he’s accidentally used too much Spidey strength, feigning she’s falling out of the chair, free hand flailing. And Peter, resident sucker, totally falls for it. He lurches forward to grab her, his other hand keeping his two scoop mint perfectly safe. When he realizes he’s been tricked, evident by the return of her evil smirk, Peter rolls his eyes and holds his ice cream far behind him so she can’t get at it. “No!” he laughs when Michelle tries to grab it. “I’m not sharing anymore.”

“Aw, c’mon, loser. One lick.”

“No.”

“Two licks.”

“That’s not how negotiations work.” She’s close again, almost in his lap, but so is her ice cream; he grins and snags a bite at the bottom of her waffle cone.

“You _bitch,”_ she whispers, tone resigned, as she starts to alternate between licking the edges of the top of the cone and drinking the ice cream melting from the bottom. “I’m texting Ned to change the Star Wars marathon to a Star Trek marathon. Kirk is better than Luke anyway.”

He blinks, no comeback in mind, as he watches Michelle tap at her phone with uncaring, sticky fingers. Peter doesn’t pay enough attention to see if that’s what she’s typing and quite frankly, he doesn’t care. In that moment the edges of him start to bubble and fizz: like an oncoming anxiety attack but worse, something entirely undefinable for the only person in the world with radioactive spider powers and a patented _Peter Tingle_ as May and Happy like to call it. He feels these waves of unease and yet...there’s no danger, no real reason to panic because the hairs on his arms aren’t standing on end. It’s basically Peter Parker versus Spider-Man at this point and the whole thing is just a twinge nauseating. 

All because of a silly phone. 

Peter purposefully didn’t bring his phone, but he discreetly pats his pockets down anyhow, double-checking. As Michelle finishes whatever text she’s typing, he looks up at the corners of the shop. There’s only one camera, small and cheap and held to the wall with _duct tape_ and Peter manages to convince himself that it’s probably not even on and even if it is, that it doesn’t matter. The bubbling and fizzing feeling has taken up a lot of his head space, but logic always wins before it gets the best of him.

How long that’ll stick, well, that’s anyone’s guess.

“I can check your phone again,” Michelle says while she pockets her own. She fixes him with a patented MJ look: flat and nonchalant, and it’s a comfort. “For spyware and other nefarious tamperings.”

Peter tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure it looks...pained. “No, it’s fine. Ned, uh.” He scratches at his temple with one hand, the other a tight grip on his ice cream. If he doesn’t start eating it soon, it’s gonna be a whole mess. He takes a bite, an actual bite, and it has Michelle giving a single snort of amusement. “Ned checked it the day before yesterday,” he admits, shamefully.

But his girlfriend just shrugs and continues to lick at her ice cream. “I can still check it again.”

He shakes his head. “No. Really. It’s fine. I know there’s nothing on it. I don’t need to feed this newfound,” he waves his hands about in a roundabout gesture, narrowly avoiding getting mint ice scream splatter on the ground. “...paranoia. It’ll pass.”

And Peter honestly believes that. He’s kinda dealt with this stuff before. After he took down Toomes on Coney Island, Peter spent about two months feeling the occasional terror that the ceiling was going to cave in on him, but after he climbed and stuck to enough of them, the feeling passed. It’s the same with this. It’s only been a little over a week. Soon enough, the mundane activities of being a high school student will take the reins on whatever brain cells remain after getting run down by a train in Germany, and banging his head on a tower bell _multiple times._ He’ll be glued to his phone like all his other classmates. There won’t be anything to be paranoid about. 

Hopefully.

They finish their ice cream in companionable silence, save for the music echoing off the shop. It’s the same song as before on repeat, in a language he doesn’t recognize, but of course, Michelle seems to know the words as she mouths along. Due to Peter’s evil zombie bite, as his girlfriend so lovingly coins, she ends up making more of a mess than the toddler-sized girl at the end of the shop. Peter dares to be cheeky and tries to wipe her mouth with a napkin, but she rips them out of his hands before he gets a chance, smirking all the while.

“Were you serious?” He finally asks after he has to reach over and swipe the ice cream off the corner of her mouth with his thumb. 

“About the phone?”

“About switching to Star Trek.”

“Oh, completely.” She moves her fingers in a Vulcan salute. “Live Long and Prosper.”

It’s cute, Peter thinks. _She’s_ cute. He’s learned a lot about her in the past year, and yet there’s still so much for him to find out. All her quirks, her preferences, her seemingly insignificant favorites, they’re all like little Christmas presents he loves to unwraps.

So he finds himself wearing a dopey grin, sticky fingers reaching over to flick gently at one of her curls that’s fallen out of its ponytail. “I should have pegged you for a Spock fan. It’s very fitting.”

Michelle squints at him, eyes looking him up and down. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”

Peter shrugs. “You have a lot in common. Smart, logical, cool, collected. I’m pretty sure you can read minds, too.”

“All decathlon captains can read minds. It’s a prerequisite.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s true.”

“Fine. You’ve done it,” she deadpans. “You’ve found my secret. I’m half Vulcan.” A small pause. “I should be an Avenger.”

“I know you’re kidding but like...Spock _should_ be an Avenger.”

“As what? The person in charge of the team’s collective _three brain cells?”_

“Excuse you. We have at least five. But yeah.”

She snorts as she hops up from the table and heads towards the door. She gives the person scooping ice cream an awkward wave of thanks before making a beeline for the toy capsule vendors at the front of the store. There’s two: one full of gumballs that are probably older than Michelle and Peter combined and the other full of something he’s only ever seen Aunt May talk about:

Snap bracelets.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” she mumbles under her breath as she fishes out enough quarters from her bag. Her eyes scan the display with all the choices and announces, “If I don’t get one of the velveteen animal print ones, I’m rioting.”

Peter watches as she drops the quarters in, twists the knob, and collects the fallen capsule. “Ugh, thank _God,”_ she murmurs as she twists the cap open and dumps the orange and black striped bracelet in her hand. It crinkles and pops as she straightens it out and then _smack!_ She slaps it across her own wrist. 

“Looks good,” Peter laughs, picking up her wrist like he’s honestly inspecting it. For a brief moment his eyes flicker up to the black dahlia pendant he gave her, broken, but still her favorite at her insistence. “Especially with your necklace.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” She sighs a little before unraveling the bracelet and straightening out once more. “‘Cause I didn’t buy it for me. I bought it for you.”

She picks up his arm and smacks the bracelet across his wrist.

“Face it, _tiger,”_ she says, tapping the bracelet with her index finger. “Looks better on you than it does me,” and then she gives him a quick peck on the cheek.

And, like every time Michelle kisses him, he melts a little. “Thanks,” he whispers, ducking his head in a blush; his thumb rubs back and forth against the soft fuzzy fabric of the bracelet. He’s pretty sure that May and Ned are going to make fun of him for like, ever, but he’s never going to take it off. Spider-Man himself will probably wear this tiger-print slap bracelet. 

He still feels warm from the summer heat, from Michelle’s kiss, from the present she gave him, that it’s almost dizzying. He zones out a bit as she mumbles, knocking at the back of his knees with her boot to get him out the door, and he’s sluggish to comply. Behind him, he hears the giggle of the little girl from the shop, and he turns his head to catch her smile, to hold on to some more of this warm feeling -

\- and it’s Morgan Stark.

His smile falls slowly, confusion furrowing his brow. He blinks, once, twice, and fights to rub his eyes like a child. It’s not Morgan Stark, it _can’t_ be. He’s seen Tony’s daughter a handful of times since the funeral so he definitely knows what she looks like, it’s not like he’s getting her confused with another dark-haired little girl. It’s….it’s not Morgan. There's no reason for her to be here. But at the same time _it is_ and -

To his own horror, his eyes drift up to look at her father, his hand on Fake Morgan’s shoulder.

Quentin Beck’s sinister grin sneers back at him, his hand tightening around Morgan.

Peter’s scream catches in his throat.

He doesn’t actually yell. He’s not exactly sure _what_ to classify the broken choking _wheeze_ sound that escapes his lips, but it is not a scream. The world tilts on its axis and panic is all that he can register. But before he can even move, before he can even react in any sort of Peter Parker or Spider-Man manner, he blinks and -

Beck and Morgan are gone.

It’s just some dad and his daughter. The little girl doesn’t even have brown hair, it’s _red,_ and Peter feels like an idiot. All it took was a second or two for the bubbly fizzy feeling to explode into a over-pressurized mess. His heart is beating so _fast -_ it might as well be a smattering against his ribcage. 

But Michelle notices. She notices something is wrong. When she grabs his arm it feels like electricity, but not the good kind. The warm, content feeling has boiled into something that _burns_ and he recoils, stepping back far enough that he falls into the shop door hard enough for the little bell to jingle.

“Peter.” Her voice is firm, grounding, but not overly loud. The dad and his daughter aren’t even really looking his way. “Come on,” and this time she pushes him, really pushes him, out of the shop and back into the unbearable New York heat. He stumbles, catching himself on a light post before falling into an embarrassing heap on the sidewalk. Michelle is quick to pull him away from the street and back towards the shops, settling underneath some awning. She rests a hand on his knee while the other brushes his hair out of his face, the back of her palm on his forehead. “You look pale. Well, paler. Than usual.”

He tries to manage a laugh but he sounds pretty winded. He moves his face, and her hand drops, resting on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Sorry,” he apologizes, and leaves it at that. He’s sorry, that’s a given, but he doesn’t even know where to begin to explain how. 

“Is it the heat?” She asks, moving her own hand to shade her eyes. “It’s...brutal. Do you get dehydrated more easily? Because...”

When Peter doesn’t answer right off the bat, she shifts her weight, bringing both hands in front of her to mime the itsy bitsy spider walking up the waterspout.

“Not that I know of,” he answers around another laugh. He’s already feeling a little more like himself. The citizens of New York see crazy and weird on the daily and they don’t pay two teenagers sitting on the sidewalk any mind. But he still finds comfort in watching them pass by. Each one uninteresting, busy, and definitely not walking around with a dead man’s face.

He breathes in, he breathes out. His eye catches a security camera across the street and he stares, briefly, before he rips his gaze away in a movement that jerks his whole body. His girlfriend notices, because of course she does, and she bites her lip.

“I’m going to get you some water,” she finally decides, standing up. She shoulders her bag. “Or orange juice? I don’t know if this is a blood sugar thing. Is it a blood sugar thing? I mean, you did just have a lot of sugar…”

It’s not often he gets to see her ramble. It’s cute. “Water would be great,” Peter says, moving around to grab his wallet again. “Thanks, MJ.”

She accepts his wallet, only to toss it limply right back into his face. “I got it. Just try not to faint on me,” and she slips into the bodega at the end of the block.

Anxiety prickles at the back of his neck when she’s out of sight, and yet there’s a part of him that’s relieved. To not have someone he cares for watching him get so nervous and freaked isn’t all that fun. He takes a deep breath once more and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms and wills them to stay shut, not willing to accept whatever world he might see when he opens them again. 

God, he’s _tired._ He’s barely slept a wink since he got back from Europe and at first it was easy to just blame it on jet lag or excess adrenaline that’s still in his system but now…

He’s been paranoid, sure. Hasn’t touched his laptop, barely looked at his phone. On the off chance he did get some sleep in it was always laced with some horrid nightmare, something that felt as real as Beck’s drone hallucinations: MJ falling to her death, or Ned drowning in Venice. He even had a dream where Flash was in peril, but then Peter would wake up, separate reality from dreamland, and try to move on.

The father-daughter duo walk out of the ice cream shop, that bell ringing at the same frequency as his ears. He watches them carefully. Red hair, the both of them, with mismatched smiles and unfamiliar freckles and everything Beck and Morgan aren’t.

Of course, they don’t notice him and walk blissfully unaware down the street. He stares at their backs until he can’t see a single sliver of them, their identities lost in the crowds. 

Michelle returns fairly quickly, flimsy black plastic bag stuffed. “I got you some water,” she says, unscrewing the cap and passing it his way. Her hand shakes a little and he feels guilty. Peter never means to worry anyone, ever. “I also got you….” she trails off as she starts to dig out the loot. “A sports drink. The flavor is...” she doesn’t spend much time looking it over, just pulls a face at the bright lime color and decides on, “...radioactive. And then if you really want some sugar…” She pulls out, of course, a spiced cherry coke. 

He chugs half the water in one go before he passes it Michelle’s way in case she wants a sip, but she seems content on falling into a sugar coma herself; she’s put a sizeable dent in the Pibb. “Radioactive huh?” He muses aloud as Michelle shoves the sports drink in her bag. “Do you think that’ll intensify my powers?”

She helps him to his feet, brow scrunched. “Are you…” She blinks, taking pause, before she takes a step back and looks him up and down entirely. “You’re _radioactive?”_

Peter’s told her bits and pieces of his...origin story, if he’s so bold to call it that. He mentioned _spider bite_ and _Oscorp field trip_ but he realizes he must not have outright said _radioactive spider._ Though at this point it feels sort of...obvious. What other tomfuckery can give a fourteen year old super strength over night? “I haven’t exactly used a Geiger counter on myself but…”

“Aha,” she snorts. “You think we could get a reading off you?”

“I have no idea. I’m sure Ned is dying to find out.”

“And me. Don’t count me out. I just might be the only girl in New York with a radioactive boyfriend.”

 _Not sure that’s a title you want,_ he says in his head, but he lets it slide. As they walk down the street, Michelle doesn’t reach for his hand; instead her arms wrap around his arm and it’s just as sweaty, but somehow better. She’s closer, and that’s always nice. But still sweaty. She ends up downing the soda in a frightening amount of time to fight the heat.

“Buckets,” she says, flat and enthusiastic, as they pass an open recycling bin in the street. She tosses the empty soda and it sails a good couple of feet before she sinks it. Nice. “Is it any cooler when you’re swinging?”

“Hmm?”

“Is there a breeze when you…” She trails off and makes a swoosh noise, undulating her arm. “Even with that mask?”

“Oh, sure.” He bobs his head up and down. They come to an intersection and it takes every ounce of Peter’s willpower to not hunt down the security cameras on the streets. “Best way to beat the summer heat. I can show you if you want.”

Michelle rolls her eyes, bumps his shoulder like she always does when he tells a corny joke, but then he gets the amusing sight of her realizing that he’s being serious. “Wait, what? You..” She blinks. “What?”

He bites his lip, trying not to laugh at her expression. “I can take you swinging. Around New York. Catch that breeze.”

She’s still skeptical. “Are you seriously offering to like…show me the world, magic carpet style?”

Peter takes a long swig from his water. “Well. No. More like: spider web...style.”

“Is that safe?”

“Absolutely. I’ve never dropped anyone. Not a grandma, not a baby, not a kitten, no one.”

“A kitten.”

“Several, actually. You wouldn’t believe how many need the help of a friendly neighborhood Spidey. Oh, but then there’s _Buttons_ . He was stuck in a _very_ tall tree in central park. Took a lot of work to get him out, but he didn’t meow _once_ on the way down. Very brave.” It’s his turn to bump her shoulder. “Maybe _he_ wasn’t scared of heights.”

Michelle scowls. “I’m not afraid of heights.”

“Right, right.”

She shoves him playfully, and he laughs. “I’m not," she assures.

“I believe you!” he says in a tone that definitely indicates he does not believe her. “So, do you want to go for a ride?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Only if you don’t phrase it like that. You’re not some roller coaster at Coney Island.” 

“Good thing I’m not, ‘cause you don’t like those either.”

“They’re too fast. And too noisy. And too nauseating. And -”

“....too high?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs a little and reaches for her hand, threading his fingers with hers. “We don’t have to go. It’s just a suggestion. But,” he squeezes her hand, subtlety draws her closer. “I think you’d have fun. Honestly.”

She hums, contemplative. “I’ll _consider_ it.”

“Very fair, Miss Jones.” He pauses, thinking of his schedule for the week. “Happy isn’t stopping by with my new suit for another two days, anyway.” Since his Spidey suit sorta got...torn to shreds in Europe, he’s been without. Which is fine. Spider-Man needs a break.

Michelle sets some distance between them, taking a lackadaisical pace along the sidewalk, but still keeping a vice grip on his hand. “Same specs as before?”

He knows what she’s asking. She wants to know just how far his _paranoia_ has stretched. And he doesn’t mind sharing. Sure, he just hallucinated a psychopath, but at the same time, he’s comfortable low-key talking about Spider-Man related experiences in the middle of New York City. Because if there’s one thing he can trust, it’s New Yorkers’ indifference to their fellow New Yorker. So that has to count for something. That’s got to be some proof he’s not _totally_ spiraling.

“Yes.” He answers. “More or less. I pretty much kept all my original manual safeguards that I put in before I dropped into London. I think in general it’s a better idea. To have a little less...automated tech, y’know? To treat the suit more like a tool someone would have to know how to use. No one’s tried it and I don’t think they would, but now it’s even less likely someone could hack it and-”

“-gain access to drones that can strike down Brad Davis in under sixty seconds?”

Peter flushes and chugs the rest of the water. The flimsy plastic crunches in his grip. “I was gonna say access the taser webs or something, but yes. That too.”

“You have _taser_ webs? What for?”

“Uh, bad guys?”

“That not - ugh. God, why do I bother.” 

He smiles as they head to the platform to catch the train to Ned’s house. There’s another recycling bin in view so he down the last droplets, lets out his own cry of, “Buckets!” and tosses the bottle twice the distance Michelle did - and sinks it. 

“Show off.”

* * *

Turns out Michelle definitely wasn’t kidding about the switch to Star Trek.

Of course, he doesn’t mind. Ned, however, is a bit of another story. He argues, half jokingly and half seriously, with Michelle about how Star Wars is technically superior, but he still buys the Star Trek movie reboot trilogy without any further prompt. 

Peter - exhausted from the heat, from his fake Beck encounter at the ice cream parlor, and likely from the lingering _everything_ that was that stupid fight in London - sprawls out on the Leeds’ couch without much care that he’s taking up pretty much all the space. When the first movie starts, Michelle settles on the floor somewhere by Peter’s head; occasionally, he’ll stretch out his arm and run his fingers through her hair. Ned just sits on the other end of the couch after moving Peter’s legs, not caring that his feet end up in his lap. Compared to Peter, Michelle and Ned don’t stay very still, nor do they stay very quiet. 

(“I see it now. I do. You could totally be half Vulcan.”

“Mmm.”

“ _That’s_ how we won every single decathlon meet last year.”

“Mmm.”

“What am I thinking right now?”

“That you should have popped popcorn fifteen minutes ago, the fan in your living room is kinda noisy, and that I should cosplay as Spock at next year’s Comic Con. Which by the way: no.”

“MJ, how the _fuck_ -“)

Peter just drifts. He doesn’t outright fall asleep, at least not for more than five minutes, because he remembers watching most of the first movie and how it bled into the second. He spends most of the time just listening, eyes closed and feigning sleep. It’s especially easy to do around the end of the second film, when Kirk dies but doesn’t _really die._ It’s not really a shock or an interesting plot point. Like, big whoop. So Kirk died and then came back to life. So did Peter. So did half the universe. 

It’s not until the third one that Ned finally wills himself to go make popcorn. “No,” Michelle whispers just as Peter feels his legs being jostled. “I’ll get it in a sec. Don’t wake him up.”

“Is he…” Peter hears Ned fumble for the words. “Is he okay? He’s not usually so lethargic. Not even in the last few days, all things considering.”

“Yeah,” she assures. “He’s fine. Or, he will be. I don’t think he’s been sleeping much, but. I guess even Spider-Man has his off days.”

Guilt knots his stomach. Michelle is a master at a level, unsuspecting tone, but even he knows her well enough to know he’s worried her. He’s worried _both_ of them, and he doesn’t want that. Most importantly because he cares about them, but even on a smaller, selfish level, he doesn’t need to add worrying about them...worrying about him ...to his tall plate of. Uh. Worrying.

“Spider-Man can hear you,” he sing-songs, voice a bit scratchy from misuse. He keeps his eyes closed as he stretches out like a cat, arms above his head. “I’m fine, Ned.” He opens his eyes and gives his friend a smile. “Haven’t slept much this week, s’all. Superhero... shrapnel, plus jet lag is a bit of a bitch.”

Ned nods his understanding, and Peter lets out a discrete breath of relief. That’s a little bit of time bought before his friends are bombarded with yet another reason to worry about him.

Then, Peter kicks his feet from his friend’s grip and sits up. “I can make the popcorn. Does your mom still keep those -”

“- mini chocolate chips and marshmallows? Yeah. Knock yourself out.”

Michelle doesn’t look up from Ned’s laptop, and when he looks down he sees her and Ned’s phone in various states of...deconstruction. She’s checking their phones. For him. Again. “Put extra chocolate chips in the mix.”

Peter leans over and presses a messy kiss into her hair. “Jeez. You eat more sugar than _I do.”_

She gives a one shouldered shrug, unbothered, as he heads to the kitchen. “Dark chocolate!” she shouts as an afterthought, mumbling profanities when she accidentally takes apart something of Ned’s phone that definitely doesn’t need to be tampered with. Peter ends up biting his lip to keep from snickering as he hears Ned’s squeaky outcries of _no, don’t, just -you’re gonna break it, give it!_ Clashing with Michelle’s mild _I know how to fix it. Relax._

Before he tears apart Ned’s mother’s kitchen in search for the proper mini chocolate chips, he takes a detour to the bathroom. His skin has that uncomfortable salty _dry_ feeling to it, and his tee shirt sticks to his lower back because despite the noisy fan that Ned can’t stop thinking about, it’s still kinda hot inside. Peter spends an extra few minutes really scrubbing his hands clean and patting the back of his neck with a wet palm, chasing something cool. In the end he ends up splashing his entire face with cold water trying to feel clean, trying to feel awake, trying to wash away the remnants of paranoia and distress that he can’t seem to hide from his friends as it is apparently perpetually etched into his face. He drags his hands down his face and looks at his reflection in the mirror.

Quentin Beck is behind him, holding a gun to his head. 

It’s not Spider-Man who reacts, it’s Peter Parker. And yeah, sure, he’s had this conversation before with Tony, with May, with Happy, with Ned, about how Spider-Man and Peter are one in the same, the suit doesn’t make him who he is, blah, blah, blah. Sure, he gets it. But it’s not always that simple. See, the Spider-Man part of him would have enough sense to remember his _Peter Tingle_ isn’t going off. Spider-Man would have enough sense to know this isn’t real danger. Spider-Man wouldn’t be scared.

It’s Peter Parker that reels his fist back and shatters the mirror with everything he’s got.

Quentin’s image instantly dissipates as the glass cracks and splinters like a spider web. Peter’s own reflection, chest heaving with erratic breaths, stares back him, duplicated and fragmented in the large pieces of glass that didn’t fall out of the frame or get embedded into his hand. A few slivers of blood trickle and weave down his fingers right before the entire vanity mirror falls off the wall and hits the back of the sink with a _thump._

“Shit,” Peter curses quietly as he stares at his curled fist. He begins to pick out any glass that he sees. “Goddamn it.”

There’s a strong rap on the door. “Peter?” It’s Michelle. “Are you okay? What was that noise.”

He hisses a little trying to get a miniscule piece of glass out of a miniscule cut. He needs a goddamn microscope. “Just a sec,” he mumbles, but he’s not certain it was loud enough to be heard. “Shit,” he keeps cursing when the wound continue to sting with his picking. “ _Ow._ ”

“Ow?” That’s Ned. “Pete, what did you do?”

The broken mirror taunts him and he chases his reflections, trying to find something whole. He grabs a wad of toilet paper, balls it up, and presses it to his knuckles before he faces the music of what he’s done. He opens the locked door that’s been jiggling incessantly for the past ten seconds.

They rush him like a swat team. “Jeez _us,”_ Ned hisses out, goggling at the mirror with a wince. As if it’s in pain or something. It would be, if mirrors could feel. It’s pretty busted. Michelle peels back his tissues and frowns; when he tries to press them back she slaps his hand loud enough for it to sort of echo off the tiles in the bathroom. “What the hell did you do?”

Peter continues to stare at the pieces of mirror that Ned starts to collect out of the sink with careful fingers. Michelle has a similar squint, eyeing his fingers for more glass, fingers pinched like tweezers. She actually mumbles something about tweezers. “Would you believe,” Peter starts, “...I saw a spider?”

Ned’s eyes blow up as he gasps out a, _where!?,_ picking up his feet like said spider might crawl up him any second. Michelle simply narrows her eyes, a gesture for him to cut the bullshit. No, she does not believe that.

“Are you even afraid of spiders?” Michelle asks in a huff of annoyance.

Peter’s smile is timid, a little playful. “Well, I’m not that fond. Last spider bite was a bit of a doozy. Got really sick.”

“Yeah. And a six pack.”

“There’s pros and cons, I can admit.”

When Ned’s split second of arachnophobia is over, he points at Peter and says, “If there _was_ a spider, killing it would be in violation of our agreement.”

Michelle turns her head. “Agreement of _what?”_

“To not kill spiders. I’m still banking on there being another escapee spider from Oscorp. I want to be bitten. Peter might want a sidekick one day.”

“You two,” she gestures between him and Ned. “Are ridiculous. Where’s the first aid kit.”

“My parents’ bathroom. You can go get it. I’m gonna…” He trails off, staring at the mess of broken mirror. “...get something to clean this up. Mom’s a bit superstitious, don’t want her finding this,” he jokes lightly.

It’s then that Peter realizes he’s not just done something objectively _stupid_ and _irrational,_ but he’s done it to Ned’s mirror. He’s never broken anything over at the Leeds' house. “Dude, I’m really sorry,” he croaks out before any of them move. “I...I didn’t mean to break it, I swear. I was. I saw-”

He can’t say it. 

“Hey, no, I know,” Ned rushes to say. Peter must look as rattled as he feels because he hears Michelle drop the seat of the toilet before she gently pushes down on his shoulder to get him to sit. Ned lays his own hand on his other shoulder. “You’re okay. I know man. I…”

The three of them stew in silence for a minute. The bathroom is crammed with them all in it, but it’s not the lack of space that’s making the air feel heavy, too thick to breathe. Every breath feels like a chore, like he has to _drink it,_ and Peter desperately wants to remember what crisp and cool autumn wind feels like.

He closes his eyes to see nothing. It’s the only reality he can trust. 

Michelle’s knuckles brush gently against his jaw before she slips out of the bathroom, Ned hot on her heels, their promises of a quick return overlapping. Peter wills himself to sit still, to drink the air, to get a _grip._

He breathes in, he breathes out. He opens his eyes. 

The mirror is still cattywampus against the back wall. He counts the spiderweb cracks, counts his reflections, counts the number of years bad luck is supposedly going to stalk him for this. Seven. Seven years of bad luck. Big whoop. He’s already hitchhiked to space, died in a galaxy far far away, come back to life five years later only to see more and more death trail behind him. His life, his trust, his reality is continuously broken. How much more unlucky could he get? Surely the universe has _some_ good luck in store for him. This won’t last.

“I dunno, kid.”

Peter turns his head, looks at the figure dressed in a three piece suit that's lying in an empty bathtub.

Tony Stark smiles at him.

“In my experience, there is no such thing as luck.” Tony sighs crossing his ankles and waving a hand about. “Or however that little Star Wars quote goes. But I guess you’ll find out.”

Peter groans and shuts his eyes again.

It’s not real. None of this is real. It’ll go away.

Eventually.

He doesn’t open his eyes for a very, very long time.


	2. Hashtag Trending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is basically the end credit scene in ffh expanded. I've not kept all the details the same, I've changed and added some things to make my story work so yeah just keep that in mind while reading!! <3

Unfortunately for Peter, his afternoon itinerary looks like this:

chrome://history

Today - Tuesday, July 23, 2024

 _12:07 PM_ was 1984 right - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:10 PM_ ghosts vs hallucinations - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:15 PM_ thai take out menu - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:19 PM_ italian take out menu - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:22 PM_ thai take out menu - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:24 PM_ surveillance cameras - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:31 PM_ how to ask someone if they’re dating your aunt - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:36 PM_ symptoms of ptsd - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:40 PM_ symptoms of sleep deprivation - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:49 PM_ dkjglsdhgsjdgkjshdkghsk - Google Search - _www.google.com_

 _12:51 PM_ Buzzfeed Quizzes - _www.buzzfeed.com_

 _12:52 PM_ Pick a Soda and We’ll Tell You Which Avenger You Are - _www.buzzfeed.com_

Not his most productive hour, for sure.

“Peter!” May calls from the living room. “Happy called! He’s coming up with your suit!”

Peter slaps his laptop shut with a groan, the picture of _You Got - Tony Stark!_ burned on his brain for the next few hours. He should have known better than to tempt fate, but it’s not his fault that Buzzfeed contributors don’t know anything about Tony Stark. Peter deliberately avoided picking tonic water because that was his favorite - couldn’t have gin without, he always said. And if they knew anything about _Spider-Man_ they would know that Dr. Pepper was _his_ favorite, not Tony’s. 

He glares at the tape sticking out from his laptop where he taped over the webcam and muses that maybe it’s a good thing that nobody knows what Spider-Man’s favorite soda is. It’s probably best no one knows anything about Spider-Man _ever._

Especially since Spider-Man now, apparently, hallucinates. Or sees ghosts. Whatever. That Google search hadn’t reaped any real results. And he’s not sure what’s the better option. Probably the ghost thing. He could just...pass it off as another superpower.

Regardless, he hasn’t seen anything since he was at Ned’s house two days ago, which has been quite the relief. He even managed to sleep the last few nights. Sure, it was only four hours, but it’s progress. He’s going to be fine. All of this is just stress. Or smoke inhalation? London was kind of smoky. Or maybe there really was some sort of bacteria in the water when he was in Venice. Also, it’s been really hot. Like, stupid hot. Maybe…

He opens up his computer, types _effects of heat stroke on radioactive teenage boys,_ backspaces the whole thing, and slaps his computer shut again.

After spending a few minutes daydreaming about sodas and Thai food and anything that’s not a dead man’s face, Peter hears Happy and his aunt laughing from the kitchen. The man is stuttering out compliments and May, always cool, takes them in stride and shoots some back at him like it’s nothing. Which it probably is, to her. May’s a smooth talker, always has been. Ben was, too. Peter remembers growing up and listening to them flirt casually back and forth, always so in love. 

He misses Ben. Tony’s absence is a constant slow, ache - the reminder never goes away. But with Ben he’ll see pieces of him, pieces of how things used to be, at the most inopportune times and it feels like he got run over by that bullet train in Berlin. Peter's whole world turned on its axis when he died, and everything, and he means quite literally _everything_ , became so different ever since. He wishes Ben was around to have seen it all. The good, the bad, hell even the... _Thanos_ : his uncle deserved to be here. 

But May deserves to be happy. Even if that means she’s happy...with Happy. However, in all honesty, as weird as it is to consider the two of them together, Peter doesn’t entirely _hate it._ He trusts Happy implicitly. He knows all of Peter’s secrets. Including the adult video purchase in Germany, apparently. But still, Happy would do anything to protect Peter and vise versa. So that makes him a good choice for May’s supposed new boyfriend. Peter would _love_ not having to hide his superhero alter ego from some stranger she met at a coffee shop or whatever.

Still. That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to interrogate the shit out of them. Or at least, try to.

Happy’s brought his suit in a paper bag, crumpled lazily on the counter. Peter snatches it up and checks it over as May tells some joke that Happy laughs a _little_ too loudly at. Jeez, it might be worse than he thought.

They don’t really acknowledge him until he tries to sneak a sip of the thermos of coffee Happy’s brought along; the man actually smacks his wrist with a rolled up copy of the New York Times. “Hey,” he whines a little, rubbing at his wrist even though it doesn’t hurt.

“No caffeine for spider teens,” is all he says, and May shrugs in a _what can you do?_ manner. Traitors, both of them. What’s a kid gotta do to stay awake? How many times must he save the world in order to get a cup of coffee? “Same specs as before,” Happy promises, taking a sip of the coveted black elixir. “They were backed up on Stark servers before the plane exploded. Comms are set to the same frequencies so you might want to mess around with those a bit.”

May hovers behind him, resting her chin on his shoulder for a moment. “Oooh, new color scheme. I like the black.” She kisses his temple, not bothered by the sentence _before the plane exploded_ that was just uttered.

Peter nods mutely, eyes roaming the finer details of the suit to check if everything really is in order as promised - everything from the stitching, to the emblem on the front. His heart knows that Happy’s not messing with him, but his brain obviously has a few wires crossed these days.

Happy tosses something at him and Peter lifts his left hand, catching it without looking. “The codes for Karen, in case you change your mind.”

There wasn’t time for him to put the codes and software for his AI in the suit back on the plane, and at the time, he didn’t need it. He needed to go in with as much manual control as he could so he could completely rely on his, uh, _Peter Tingle,_ to fight the illusions. That threat on that scale probably won’t exist again. And yet...Peter doesn’t know why the idea of Karen bothers him. She’s still in his Iron Spider, so he always has that option. But having a suit without a disembodied voice is a good option, too. 

Peter doesn’t know how long this...stress is going to last. First, it’s blinks of a villain long dead, then, his old friend Iron Man talking to him from the bathtub. Frightening, sure, but he knows that stuff is fake even when he sees it. He doesn’t want to imagine the possibility of mishearing the things around without him, of recreating a reality that seems so _real_ he once again, doesn’t question it.

For now, he doesn’t need Karen; the Tony Stark ghosts will do.

He twirls the drive between his fingers. “Upload this stuff all by yourself did you, Mister _Password.”_

Happy’s eyes slant in annoyance. “Okay, of course I didn’t upload Karen to that goober whatchamacallit. I don’t have a degree in _nerd._ Rhodes did it.”

“What is a _goober.”_

 _“That,”_ Happy gestures. “What you’re holding. I don’t know.”

“You’re the _real_ goober,” May throws back, and it has Happy stuttering like some lovesick puppy. “Peter, go try your suit on, I wanna see.”

He does without complaint, if only to give himself some time on how to go about this whole interrogation shtick. That Davis guy way back in the day told him he needed to work on this part of the job and honestly, he wasn’t wrong. Peter’s not so good at talking. He kinda talks way too much; it feels like half the reason he gets in trouble in the first place. 

So, he spends a few extra minutes fiddling around in his room. His apartment is no Stark Industries lab, no SHIELD headquarters. Hell, it isn’t even Tony’s lake house upstate. That place at least has a security system.

Peter’s place doesn’t even have smoke detectors.

Ever since he came back from Europe, he’s worked on better hiding his Iron Spider capsule. It’s a bit clunky - he ended up putting it in a laundry basket in the back of his closet, because he’s pretty sure robbers wouldn’t go through his dirty clothes. His new suit, that might just get shoved in his underwear drawer (again, he’s hoping hypothetical robbers aren’t going through his clothes) or back to being hidden in the ceiling. Again. 

Though maybe that’s a better spot for EDITH.

As it currently stands, the EDITH glasses are...in a hole in his wall. Literally. Peter specifically punched a glasses sized hole in the wall and then covered it up with a framed drawing that Michelle had sketched in their art class and gifted had given him last semester: it's a cartoon version of himself in medieval garbs, labeled _King Peter,_ as he attempts to pull a sword from a stone, just like the old story. Except instead of a sword it's a lightsaber. And sure,he loves it, it's pretty much the best picture of him in existence but..he needs a safe. Or like, a _lair._ Ned was always talking about how Spider-Man needs a lair but Peter always dismissed it with the thought that it was a little _villainy._ Now he sees it’s just a matter of security. Maybe he’ll talk to Happy about it. 

But first.

“Peter!” his aunt calls from the kitchen. “Are you ready? Chop chop!”

He finishes putting everything in place: double checking EDITH is behind the wall, checking on the Iron Spider in the closet, leaving the Stark Industries glasses case empty and sorta-kinda in plain sight on his side table as a paranoid-fueled, unnecessary decoy. He takes the snap bracelet Michelle gave him and fits it over his arm, right above the web shooter, and puts the drive for Karen quite literally in his suit, somewhere in a hidden compartment he built behind the spider emblem. A temporary spot until he can find a better one for it, someplace in his room. “Yeah, I’m ready!” he calls back. “But uh,” he pauses to clear his throat. “Can you come in here? Happy too. Both of you.”

Peter sits backwards in his desk chair in full Spider-Man costume sans mask just as May and Happy walk in. May looks confused for a second but she lights up when she sees Peter’s suit, complimenting him on the style choices and whatnot. Happy on the other hand.

Happy looks a little nervous.

Good. 

“Take a seat,” and he gestures to the bed. “We need to talk.” 

Happy practically collapses into Peter’s twin bed, back rigid. Like he’s at an interview. This is going better than he had hoped.

May on the other hand looks _highly_ amused at her son playing the part of detective, but she takes a seat next to Happy regardless. “Yes, Pete? What’s up?”

Peter leans into the back of the chair with a sigh, crossing his arms on the top. “Okay,” he begins. “I’ve thought a lot about how to go about this but quite frankly…” 

Yeah, he can’t do a whole speech. There’s no way. He doesn’t have the brain cells. Maybe if _someone_ had given him their _coffee_ this would be a different story. 

“Look,” he tries again. “It’s been a long summer. And a long year before that. And a few longer years before _that._ My life is all about secrets and hiding and it’s making me a little crazy so let’s - let’s not make this -” He gestures between the two of them with his hand. “A secret as well. I will physically and mentally not be able to take it. So. Here goes: are you two dating or not.”

There’s a pause. And then, 

“Yes,” Happy sighs.

“Not really,” May says at the same time.

The look they give each other is priceless.

Peter’s brow arches. This...wasn’t exactly the reaction he had anticipated. He doesn’t know how to proceed. If May and Happy aren’t on the same page, what hope does he have? “It’s not a very difficult question. What, have you guys not talked about it?”

“No, that’s not it -”

“ - we’ve talked about it’s just...well -”

“I mean,” May amends, not looking very flustered. “It’s like...you know, a summer fling.”

“- that can perhaps, maybe, grow into a relationship -”

“- sure, but it’s not like, we’re not really -”

“- I mean we aren’t but we are, it can...we have potential -”

“- potential, yes, that’s good - “

“- and I mean whether we do or don’t, we’re always going to be friends -”

“- definitely. We’re definitely friends -”

“ - so I think -”

The continue to talk around each other, desperately trying to explain whether they’re Facebook Official or whatever. The noise of it all makes him a bit fuzzy. Peter blinks, trying to give his brain a moment to reset.

And then the last person he ever thought he’d ever see shows up, leaning casually against his window sill. He’s wearing a smile.

As well as the blood soaked flannel he was shot in.

Peter’s heart skips a beat. If he hasn’t already been seeing shit, he might have screamed. 

“Damn, buddy.” Ben laughs. “This the type of guy your aunt dates now?” He leans away from the window and leans toward Happy like he were reading a damn plaque on a painting or something. “I mean, he seems real nice don’t get me wrong. And he cares for you, which is a _must._ But really. That beard?”

From May’s side, Tony appears, grinning devilishly. 

This _cannot_ be happening.

“Happy, you sly dog.” He looks at Peter. “Aunt Hottie? How’d he manage that? You think it’s the...shit, what did he call it? His blip beard?”

May and Happy are still fumbling. This is very amusing to Not Actually Uncle Ben. “Look at him blush! He’s really wrapped around her finger, isn’t he?” he asks Tony.

Great. His hallucinations are talking to each other. Isn’t that just _peachy._

“Oh, for sure,” Tony asks. “You think it’ll last?”

“You know what? I actually think it might.”

“Wanna put money on it?”

“Hell yeah - wait, are we talking about the beard or their relationship?”

Tony and Ben laugh at their own antics, and it clashes _horribly_ with May and Happy’s desperate attempt to define flings and casual dating and _when a man loves a woman_ blah blah blah. He doesn’t actually know what they’re saying. How could he? His brain is getting _flayed_ by its own overactive imagination. 

“Okay, okay,” Peter relents. He throws both arms out and squeezes his eyes shut. Both May and Happy slow in their mumbling, and Ben and Tony shut up entirely. “Okay,” he says a third time, a whisper mostly to himself, and he opens his eyes. 

Ben and Tony are gone.

Peter sags in relief.

“Let’s try again. When did this all start?” he asks, massaging at one of his temples. He’s getting a headache. Maybe it’s his insanity and stress manifesting itself into a tumor. The self-deprecating part of his brain can only hope.

“...Um, May?” Happy says, uncertain, just as his aunt drags out a long “Juuuuuuuu - May,” she amends once she’s heard Happy’s answers. “Yeah, end of May.”

“Wait, June?”

“Yeah, I thought -”

And then it starts again. This time, Ben and Tony aren’t court side for the derailing, and Peter wants to add himself to that list.

“Okay, I’m gonna...I’m gonna go,” Peter decides, swinging one leg over to get out of the chair. “I’ve got a date with MJ. My girlfriend. Who I know is my girlfriend because we _talked about it.”_

Happy clams up while May huffs out a laugh. “Have fun on your date, baby,” May relents, waving her hand. “I’m ordering Thai for dinner, so just be back around eight, okay?” She turns to Happy and asks, “Hap? You staying?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, that sounds good. Thai sounds good.”

Peter rolls his eyes but he can’t help but smile. Yeah, it’s weird. But it’s not all that bad. He’s almost out his bedroom window when May chucks his pillow at him. “Don’t forget your phone.”

Happy reaches for it on the nightstand, handing it to Peter with a smile like it’s no big deal. Because it _is_ no big deal. Ned checked his phone the other day. There’s nothing on it. He planned this date with Michelle _with his phone._ The creepy crawly anxiety drifting up his spine at the most random times is bullshit. 

He takes the phone. 

When he casts one last look around the room, Ben and Tony are nowhere to be found. This is good. 

He’s going to be fine. 

* * *

He finds Michelle strolling on the sidewalk not too far from their meeting spot. She’s already a master of cool when it comes to his superhero alter ego, giving no hint that she’s startled or surprised when he lands next to her. But she is the one that sounds a little out of breath between the two of them when she lets out a, “Hey,” awkwardly flexing her fingers by her side.

“Hey,” he says, tossing her his phone. She catches it, barely, fumbling with it for a few times before getting a grip. “Hold that, will you?”

“Where -” She pauses, tilting her head before she puts it in her back pocket. “Where do you normally _keep this?”_

“Karen, my AI, is connected to my phone." He purposefully leaves out the fact that this suit does not have Karen. "That or I just...hold it, usually. The time I spend fighting is actually very little compared to the time I spend, say, taking Instagram photos for people on the street.”

She nods. “Or pulling Buttons the kitten out of the tree?”

“Exactly,” he says, snapping his fingers. He finds he’s usually more expressive with hand gestures when he’s in the suit. “If I _have_ to fight, then my secret radioactive spider pincers come out, grab my phone and - ow!” he yelps, pretending it hurts when Michelle pinches his bicep through the suit. Her face is comically screwed up at the picture he just painted and he laughs, dropping the matter. “Sorry, sorry. So. You ready?”

She squints in the afternoon sunlight, still a little unsure about what to do with her arms. “Yeah? Yeah, I think so.”

“You can still back out if you want to.”

Her confidence seeps back at the sheer mention of defeat. Typical Michelle. “And have you call me a chickenshit? No way.”

“I would never call you a chickenshit, MJ.” She rolls her eyes, taking a step back, but Peter grabs her gently by the forearm and presses her to his side.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” She snakes her arms around his neck while one of his arms settles around her waist. “So...where are we going?” she turns her head, looking at the streets of Queens.

He only hesitates for a moment. “Coffee date?”

“Do you _need_ coffee?”

“Why is everyone policing my caffeine intake?”

She sighs, and her posture slackens a little more against him. One of her arms falls to rest against his wrist; her thumb rubs back and forth against the velveteen of the bracelet she gifted him. “Something tells me that you and your…” She never finishes, just gestures to all of him, helplessly. “Just don’t need all that.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Peter scoffs. “If you could see the bags under my eyes. They’re Gucci.”

“Tired joke.”

“Well, tired me.”

“Then get more sleep. Look, are we going or not.”

“Mmmhm.” He hums, hand gently squeezing at her waist. “But first, safety checks. You must be _this_ tall,” he uses his free hand to pat his head. “To ride Spider-Man.” 

“Don’t _phrase_ it like that, we _talked_ about this -”

He moves his hand to compare their heights. “Perfect, you pass.” He leans a little closer and whispers, “You might wanna jump up.”

He sees her blush in the summer heat before she does as he asks, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Now,” he continues, “Keep your arms and legs on Spidey at all times and enjoy the skyline.”

“Ugh, enough already, will you just - AHH!" 

Peter’s never actually heard Michelle _shriek_ before. Even when fake water monsters were attacking Venice, when a wannabe fire monster destroyed a carousel, and when she was cornered by rogue drones in a vault, she didn’t panic. Ned says she actually destroyed one of those drones with that mace she dragged out onto the bridge (what Peter would have paid to have seen that). Michelle’s been scared, been freaked, been worried, but he didn’t think it was possible for her to really venture outside her monotone register he adores so much. 

Turns out she really doesn’t like heights after all.

How she would have fared on the top of the Eiffel Tower, he doesn’t know.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god!”_ She keeps chanting as her grip on him becomes lethal to anyone who doesn’t have super strength. “I’m closing my eyes. I’m not looking. I’m not looking. Oh my god.”

Peter laughs, making a sharp turn on one of his swings that has Michelle burying her face into his neck. “You should look! You can’t get another view like this! Coming up on Times Square.”

“We’re in _Manhattan!?”_ she shrieks. “How fast are we _going!?”_

“Pretty fast!” he laughs. “Wanna do a stunt?”

“Peter!”

“That’s not a no!” and with his strength he’s able to pull her off him and toss her in the air above him. Her scream reaches a register only _dogs_ can hear before he catches her by her hand. She hangs like that for one more swing before Peter snaps another web and pulls her back up on the next upswing.

“You said keep my hands and feet on you at all times!” she shouts in his ear once she’s attached to him like a koala once more. “I can’t do that if you _drop me!”_

 _Thwip, swing._ “I didn’t drop you! I _tossed_ you!”

“I’m gonna _toss_ my goddamn lunch if you don’t put me down.”

They’re in Times Square, which he figures is as good as any a spot to end his first official Spider-Man tour. When he lands, he expects his girlfriend to scramble off him, kiss the ground where they stand. Instead she holds on to him, face in his shoulder, legs wrapped tight around him. Shaking.

“Hey,” he laughs a little, trying to keep his voice low. He rubs his hand up and down her back in an attempted soothing gesture. “Hey, we’re done. On the ground. No roofs, no balconies, no nothing. Just sweet, hot pavement.”

“I’m not doing that again.” She sighs, finally letting go of him and taking a step back. She’s still a little shaky, so he grabs her hand, just to make sure she doesn’t keel over. “We’ll...we’ll leave the swinging to you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.” He throws his thumb somewhere behind him. “You still wanna go get coffee?”

“I don’t want to eat or drink for forty-eight hours,” Michelle deadpans. “Not until my stomach comes out of my... head. Or wherever it ended up.” She leans over a little like she’s just run a marathon, winded and overwhelmed. “How do you _do that_ all the time?”

“I mean.” Peter shrugs helplessly, dropping her hand. “I have superpowers. I can’t. I can’t explain it.”

“Figures.” She lets out a long breath and then just like that, her composure all starts to come back. She stands a little straighter. “Hey, have you ever actually _bought_ coffee as Spider-Man? Because I’m trying to picture you in the get-up like, standing in line at Starbucks and it’s pretty -”

She cuts herself off when she notices the giant screen in Times Square blink with breaking news.

If there’s one thing that New Yorkers can all agree on, it’s that Jameson of the Daily Bugle is probably the most annoying “news” anchor in existence. He’s loud, he’s opinionated, and yet he commands attention. As annoying as Peter finds him, he and the rest of the city always turn their heads to listen.

This time is no exception.

Jameson rolls the clip, and Peter’s world unravels.

Beck’s face is blasted on the screen.

Peter can admit, to himself at least, that he hasn’t exactly had his head screwed on all the way these last few days. Somewhere there needs to be a battery changed, a faulty wire needs to be replaced, something. But if there’s one thing Peter can remember, one thing Peter can count on memory wise, it’s that last conversation with Beck. He remembers it as clear the day Ben was shot, the day Toomes crashed that plane, the day he died on Titan, and the day Tony died for the universe. Trauma works great like that.

So he knows when the video plays and EDITH asks if he wants to execute the drone attacks and Peter says _yes,_ that it’s all a lie. He didn’t set out to attack Beck. He didn’t execute any drone strikes in London. It’s not real. The video is a manipulation, an illusion, just like the Tony in the bathtub and the Ben at his apartment.

But at the same time it’s not like that. This is is very, very real to the world around him.

He turns his head and sees people gasp with shock, stare up at them like they can’t believe that Spider-Man would do this. That he’s some sort of _terrorist._ Others are confused, some cry out with _“Bullshit, no way!”_ but the consensus is all the same, on one front.

They’re all hearing what he’s hearing. He’s not hallucinating. This is really happening.

Spider-Man is getting _gutted._

And then it gets _worse._

“Spider-Man’s real name is P-”

The video blips out and Peter’s heart ricochets off his rib cage. Instant panic and then relief, because he almost had him, he _almost_ had him, and how is this even happening, Beck was _dead,_ EDITH assured him he was _dead,_ where is this video even coming from -

_“Spider-Man’s real name is Peter Parker!”_

His face, his _real face,_ flashes across the biggest screen in New York.

Holy shit.

“What the _fuck!”_ Peter screams, heads flying to grasp at his head. 

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Closes them. Opens them.

And yet, his face doesn’t leave that screen.

He looks over at Michelle, face pale and shocked. She’s shaking, and it’s not from the swinging, he can tell that much.

This is really happening.

Quentin Beck, from beyond the grave, just called Spider-Man a terrorist.

And framed Peter Parker for _murder._

A million thoughts jumble in his head, unfinished and constantly cut off by each other. Peter’s always over thought damn well near _everything -_ it’s half the reason why he got in this Beck mess in the first place, overthinking Tony’s message like that - but at least he thinks fast, and there’s one particular plan that sticks out above all else.

He has to get out of here. He has to get _so far_ out of here.

And he can’t be tracked.

“MJ,” he squeaks out. “My phone.”

The citizens of New York are baffled, still digesting the news. They are approaching him like one might a wounded animal, but he’s not sure those attitudes will stick if they get their hands on him. 

His girlfriend snaps out of it long enough to yank his phone out of her pocket and hand it over. Peter doesn’t hesitate to break it in half with his bare hands before he throws it at her feet.

“I have to go,” he whispers.

She doesn’t answer. She stares at him, still in shock.

Peter doesn’t blame her.

“I’m so sorry,” he tells her. “It’s a lie...it’s not - MJ-” He’s at a loss. His eyes linger on her face, trying to remember everything about her - her curly hair, the shape of her eyes, the curve of her nose. They never should have landed. He should have kept them swinging until their wasn’t a skyline to skim across. He never should have put her down. He never should have let go of her hand.

Because now, he’s not sure when he'll ever be able to do it again.

He wants to say something meaningful, but he just _can’t._

No matter what, it’ll be a goodbye.

“Spider-Man,” she shouts. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. She's properly scared, he can tell. _“Go!”_

That's all he needs. He just manages to swing up on a lamppost and into the skyline before the crowd caves in on him. And once he starts swinging, he can’t really stop. He swing as fast as he can, as _high_ as he can, all the way back to Queens. News travels fast _always,_ sure, but it’s not like it’s _real_ news. The Daily Bugle isn’t the most reputable news source. It’s a glorified gossip column; that’s what Mister Stark always said. 

The Spider-Man accusation about the drone strike...yeah, that’s messy. That’ll be a tough one to work out. But his head is out of the shot. The Peter Parker angle...that’s just pure speculation. There’s no _proof,_ other than a dead man’s word. As long as no one can prove Spider-Man is Peter Parker...he should be safe. 

But that means Peter has to get to his house first and hide all his Spider-Man gear.

He really, really should have invested in a lair of some sorts.

He’s not sure if that video is enough for the police to get a _warrant_ but to be honest, he’s not sure that matters. If they think he’s Spider-Man, and they have reason to believe Spider-Man blew up, like, _half of London_ with the help of his apparent army of _billion dollar weaponized drones_ they might just…..help themselves to his apartment. Due process doesn't always apply to enhanced people, he's learned.

God, he really hopes Happy stayed for dinner. Maybe he’ll get his stuff out of there. Or maybe, Peter will get there in time and everything will be fine because hey, he's Spider-Man, he's fast, the police are pretty slow and...yeah! And he’s swinging and he’s swinging, and he’s almost home and then -

He sees half a dozen police cars parked outside his complex.

“Shit!” Peter swears, shooting a last second web to change trajectories, hiding himself on a nearby roof down the block. He rolls into the landing, letting himself collapse on his back and he chokes back a sob. “God _dammit.”_ One of his hands forms a fist and slams it on the roof while the other curls at the bottom of his mask, itching to take it off for some real fresh air, for a moment to breathe.

But he can’t do that. Not yet.

Instead, he grabs at his snap bracelet and unravels it, straightening it out and slapping it back on his wrist over and over again as a means to get a grip on his nerves while he just... _thinks._ Because yeah, there's no denying it. Real or fake, that video is everywhere. He doesn’t need his phone to know the hashtags, the posts, the _trending articles._ Phones around the city, hell, probably around the _world,_ are full of searches like _Who is Spider-Man?,_ _Did Spider-Man kill Mysterio?, is Spider-Man evil?_ And his worst nightmare: _is Spider-Man Peter Parker?_

 _“People wanna believe in something,”_ Beck said. “ _And these days, they’ll believe anything.”_

Peter just really, really hopes they all won’t believe in this.

“Chin up, kid.”

He turns his head and sees Tony laying beside him, hands behind his head and smiling like Peter’s shit didn’t just get _wrecked._

“You’ll figure it out. Just another pickle from the _Peter Shenanigans_ jar. You’ll get a lid on it.”

He turns his head and gives Peter a smile that’s all too familiar, all too soothing, and all too heartbreaking knowing that it isn’t real.

“You don’t have a choice.”

When Peter blinks, Tony is gone. But what he said still lingers.

So Peter gets up.

He doesn’t have a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was it just me or in the beginning of ffh were peter ned and mj all in an art class did they all sign up for art so they could hang out is peter in art class what did he draw did he draw at all is this supposed to be a subtle nod to his photography skills did he take pics for art class WHAT does his portfolio look does he let mj see it jon watts call me I NEED to know this stuff you left me hanging with the marching band comment in hoco and I still don't know what instrument he plays i NEED TO KNOW THIS STUFF.
> 
> anyway.
> 
> thank you all for commenting you are all so sweet!!!! <3 next update in about another week as well!


	3. Dodge City

It’s no secret that Peter Parker and Eugene Thompson aren’t really friends. 

Peter doesn’t _hate_ the guy or anything. Not by a long shot. Hell, he’s pretty sure Flash doesn’t even hate _him._ He’s just made messing with him a hobby of his. Flash is like a mosquito, leaving prickly, itchy spots on him that his blunt nails can’t always _scratch,_ but overall, his impact is insignificant. Or some other convoluted analogy of the like. Point is, Flash doesn’t dunk his head in the toilets or slap his books out of hands, or...beat him up (not that he could - Flash couldn’t even throw a right hook at pre-spider bite Peter with the low BMI and the thick bulletproof glasses he used to wear). Flash just calls him Penis Parker and makes fun of him in ways that pretty much go in one ear and out the other. Not even on his radar of things to worry about. Peter’s got bigger fish to fry.

But, if there’s one thing that stuck out about Flash after the so called _Blip,_ it was his fanboy status over Spider-Man. Which is pretty amusing, all things considered. He heard Spider-Man went to space and fought Thanos beside Iron Man and just _lost it_ which, like, fair. Space is pretty cool when you’re not hurling through the cosmos in a foreign Alien spaceship or getting a celestial moon thrown at you by a giant purple raisin on a planet no one on Earth even knows exists. 

TLDR; space is pretty cool when you don’t die there.

And then...Tony fixed things. Fixed, well, everything. Peter came back, and Spider-Man continued doing what he does best. Helping the little guy. Friendly Neighborhood vigilante. And Flash was all for it. Peter’s not _positive,_ but he’s pretty sure that popular Instagram account - SpiderFan_01 - is his doing. The last year has seen Flash spending more time being Spider-Man’s die-hard fan than being the metaphorical paper cut on Peter’s finger. Which is good. Very good.

It might just save his ass. He’ll have to see.

Luckily, Peter still remembers where Flash’s house is. Of all his friends that were blipped, Flash is probably the only one he knows that actually _kept_ his original house. It’s a nice, contemporary style, just down the road from where Liz’s used to be. They had a makeshift AcaDec meeting there while the school was setting up classes and extracurriculars at the beginning of the year. And Peter - Spider-Man, at this moment (though, technically all one in the same right now according to the news _Goddammit)_ is pretty good at being stealthy when he wants to be. So even with the world more or less taking in the identity reveal of the century, Peter swings to the Thompson’s place without police sirens or shouting pedestrians in his wake.

He has to crouch through a few neighboring backyards to get there, and only disturbs one dog in the process (sorry, Bailey). The house is mostly big windows, which makes finding Flash’s room fairly easy. The small Spider-Man fanart he has over his bed is a dead give away.

Oh boy.

Flash doesn’t see him. He’s sitting at his desk chair, slumped over, jaw moving like he's grinding his molars. The television in his room is playing the news of Spidey’s supposed betrayal to the well-being of society. Peter’s picture is forever ingrained in the top right corner of the screen next to various news anchors’, only disappearing to replay the video that Beck released. Flash twirls his phone around in his hand, flipping it back and forth on his palm, occasionally stopping to scroll through what looks to be a Twitter feed.

But Peter can’t just sit there forever like a coward. People will notice. Bailey the dog will keep barking. 

So he taps on the window. 

And Flash nearly screams.

The stare off they have would be insanely comical if not for Peter’s time crunch to find a safe haven. Flash looks at Spider-Man the same way Peter likely looked at Tony when he first saw him sitting on his sofa in his apartment that one fateful day. When it becomes apparent that Flash needs another jolt back to reality, Peter taps on the window once more. This time Flash jumps out of his seat with a shake of his head and runs over to open the window. 

Flash opens it eerily slow: it swings open like a door, creaking all the while, and leaves barely enough room for Peter to sort of...poke his head in through the opening.

He needs something good, he figures: a strong, opening statement. Something he might have said back when he was on the debate time once upon a time. Something with that same zeal Elle Woods had when she figured out Chutney was lying about being in the shower when her father was shot.

What Peter goes with is, “Uhh. Hey, Flash.”

Real poetic.

Something in Flash’s expression shifts; it goes from startled shock to mild disappointment. “Oh, God,” he whispers, giving Peter a once over. “Is it really you, Parker?”

Peter sighs, yanking his mask off the front of his face, keeping it anchored around his ears and the top of his head. He mirrors Flash’s expression of disappointment, but cranks it up a few notches to try to reach _horrifically displeased._ “I’m afraid so.”

“Fuck,” Flash swears, just a whisper under his breath. Then, the panic starts to hit. “Shit, shit,” he says a little more loudly before he takes a step back, swinging the window open as far as it can. “Get in. Hurry.”

Peter sort of shoots his body through, somersaulting into the room and landing in a patented Spidey crouch. He stands slowly, surveying the room. It looks like something out of one of those Pottery Barn magazines May used to get in the mail. Everything has its place. There’s a desk with little trinkets. The bed is made. He has a _headboard._ A real nice one, too. Up close, the poster he has of Spider-Man is actually _really cool._ “Nice,” he ends up mumbling, curling and uncurling his fingers as his arms stay rigid by his side. 

Flash shuts the window, has the brain cells to cover the window with these obscenely large curtains, and then proceeds to reboot all his neurological functions as he stands facing away from Peter, hands frozen in some witchy claw shape.

Peter, meanwhile, starts looking around Flash’s room in his newfound habitual paranoia. “Uh, dude?” He whispers. “You don’t have like. Cameras from a home security system in here or something, right?”

Luckily, that’s enough to snap him out of his stupor. “No,” he shakes his head. “No the cameras are...they’re outside.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I can...lemme turn ‘em off, hold on.”

As it turns out, Flash can do all that at his computer. Peter ends up staring at his screen as he pulls up the house’s cameras and turns them off, one by one. When he’s done, Flash hesitates only a moment before taking his phone and turning it off, showing Peter the dark screen.

“It’s off, but uh,” Flash’s hands hover over his desk before he starts yanking out drawers. “I can take it apart…”

“No,” Peter breathes out. “No, it’s fine. Maybe just..” he trails off and marches over to grab Flash’s phone to stuff it in a drawer underneath a pile of chemistry notes. “There. Good. That’s. Yeah, we’re good.”

“Your phone? I can -”

“I ripped it in half,” He blurts out. “No chance of tracking it.”

Flash stares at Peter’s hands. “Right. Of course. You just ripped it in half. That’s a thing you can do. Because you have super strength. Because you’re Spider-Man.”

He blinks before he groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh my god. I called Spider-Man a _dickwad._ To his face. Several times.”

And despite the hellish afternoon he’s had, Peter laughs.

“Yeah,” he agrees, finally taking his mask all the way off. His hair sticks up at odd ends, sweat beading at his temple and curling strays around his ears. “You did.”

Flash is still struggling. “I’ve been calling Spider-Man, _Penis Parker.”_

“Yes, you have. I gotta say, still haven’t decided which I prefer.”

The television’s volume changes drastically when the news cuts to live feed of Times Square, grabbing both the boys’ attention. There isn’t any sort of identifiable chaos in the streets, but the crowd is still buzzing in confusion as various screens start flashing different news stations with different reporters - Jameson remains on the largest screen as the live reporter starts asking questions to bystanders who claim to have been in Spidey’s wake when he got outed to the world.

At the bottom of the screen is a red banner, bold white letters that read: _Spider-Man: Murdering Terrorist or Innocent Hero?_

“Well, don’t feel too bad,” Peter points out, limply gesturing to the screen. “I’ll take dickwad over murdering terrorist any day.”

Flash winces, wringing his fingers together. “I-”

Dread makes a knot of itself in Peter’s gut, the back of his throat burning like his breakfast is itching to come back up and greet them. “I didn’t do it,” he whispers. “I don’t...I don’t know _how_ he….I didn’t do what he said.” His voice gets a little louder, a little desperate. “I didn’t call those drone strikes, I called them _off._ I didn’t set out to _kill_ Beck. I didn’t -”

“I know.”

Peter tears his eyes away from the news report and looks at Flash, brow furrowed but hands much more relaxed than they were moments ago.

“Look,” Flash sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Although it’s a little embarrassing I didn’t put the whole _Peter Parker is Spider-Man_ thing together myself…” he pauses. “Man that _does_ make a lot of sense,” he mumbles under his breath. “The whole D.C thing….”

“...was me, yeah.”

He shakes his head. “Anyway. I know Peter Parker. And I know Spider-Man. Neither of them are capable of terrorist attacks or murders. Spider-Man was once trending because someone made a compilation video of all the times you picked up stray cats and dogs and dropped them off at the shelter. You’re…” He sounds a little angry, in a way he sometimes gets when he’s frustrated with Peter’s seemingly effortless accomplishments and grades at school. “You’re the fucking spokesperson for the displaced at the _homeless shelter._ You wouldn’t do what Mysterio said. I mean hell, you were with all the Avengers when you saved the world. You’ve been to _space -”_

Flash’s hands both fly up to his head, tugging at his hair.

“You went to space!” he screeches, and Peter bites his lip to keep from laughing outright. “And not just with anyone, with _Tony Stark -”_

Tony’s name is the exact opposite of Voldemort’s in Harry Potter. His name is spoken with such reverence and adoration, you’d think he was president or king. Or, like, savior of the universe. But when the people who know Peter, the people who know what Tony _meant_ to Peter, say his name…

It’s pretty much like his uncle all over again. 

Which is exactly what happens, only for the first time, the pursed lips and guilty expression is coming from Flash. After years of him teasing him about his so-called-internship with Tony Stark, it seems he finally believes Peter. 

Funny. He thought it’d feel better than this to stick it to him.

“I’m sorry,” Flash whispers. “You...you really did know him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. His mask hangs loosely between his fingers, his thumb rubbing over the white eyes. When he looks up, he half expects to see Tony inspecting the drapes with some expression of disgust, but luckily, his mind is giving him a break, and Tony Stark is nowhere to be found.

“Jeez, if he could see me now,” He goes on to say, scrubbing roughly at his forehead. Flash looks on as Peter gives an exasperated, breathy laugh, his smile likely delirious. “And to think I thought it couldn’t get much worse when I ended up in the Netherlands after getting hit by that train.”

Flash, clearly not following, opens and closes his mouth like some dumb fish, trying to find the right words. He settles on the million dollar question of, “So...why’d he do this?” He looks back to the television set before he makes the executive decision of muting it, which helps a _little_ , but the subtitles come on and Peter can still _read._ “I thought….he was a hero.”

“Get in line,” Peter grumbles, falling back with a light thump against the mattress. “MJ and Ned can fill you in but basically….he’s bad, Flash. He’s real bad. Everything: the shit that went down in Venice, in Austria, the drones in London - it was all his fault. There was no _Elementals_ it was always the drones, like the ones that followed you guys into that vault. And _Beck_ was in charge of it all. It was stolen Stark Industries tech.” Peter hesitates before trucking on, “Well, not at first. I sorta gave it to him -”

He gawks, “You _gave it to him -”_

“But that was before, when I thought he was a nice, run-of-the-mill superhuman from a parallel universe. But he played me like a fiddle, I had a mental breakdown, he blew up London and I...fixed it.”

“You mean: he died.”

“Yeah! I mean: he died! From his own dumb recklessness. I defeated him, if you want to use the superhero lingo. Which, I don’t.” He shoots both arms out in front of them, crossing them like an _X_ across his body, for a short moment. “But look, the point is, I thought I fixed it!”

Flash blew out a long breath. “Hindsight is 20/20.”

“No kidding. I should have.” He stops short, rubbing at his eyes until he sees stars, convincing himself it’s a foolproof method to not crying. “Spider-Man should have said something. I didn’t think it _mattered_ all that much when he died. Not everyone saw the drones in London the way you did. And that way, I didn’t have to tell the world I gave the great Tony Stark’s legacy and put it in the hands of his greatest living enemy. And everything would….go back to normal. As normal as it could be. I guess that was selfish of me.”

He stops, taking a short, shaky breath. As quick as his rambling outburst came, it starts to shrink away like a low tide, leaving something dry and airy its wake. “I’m still used to the Spidey kitten wrangling compilation videos on YouTube,” Peter admits so softly, Flash almost can’t hear it. “Armies of killer drones, mystical stones, and fights in other galaxies are fresh stamps on my resume. And even then, it was always just. Spider-Man’s problem. Not Peter Parker’s. And now…”

He dares not look at the TV. He already knows his school picture is sitting pretty in the top right corner.

“We’re one in the same. And I don’t know what to do.”

 _Again_ goes unsaid _._ He never does, these days. He wonders if he’ll ever get his shit together. 

“There’s no proof.”

Peter’s brow furrows, his nose wrinkling as he sits up. Flash said those three words with such confidence he’s intrigued, but he’s not entirely sure where he’s going with this _proof_ angle.

“Okay, okay, look,” Flash goes on when Peter’s confusion must be painfully obvious. He grabs the remote and unmutes it right when the news station starts replaying the video which, okay, a little bit _rude_ if you ask Peter. “Your face isn’t in the shot. And let’s be real, your voice sounds like any prepubescent boy -”

“- hey now -”

“Spider-Man could still be anybody. He’s making a wild claim.” Flash says, ignoring his pout. “It’s just speculation.”

Peter gestures to him in the suit with one hand, adding a flourish for emphasis. 

Flash rolls his eyes. “Okay, yes, he’s right about that part. But just because me and a few kids on the Decathlon team know it’s you doesn’t mean the rest of New York knows. Or believes it.”

“Did…” He pauses, tilting his head. “Did you believe it? Y’know, until I squashed myself onto your window.”

“I mean for the first split second, no. But it was hard not to? Just because I know you and that was _your face_ blasted on the screen and then I started remembering all the times _you_ disappeared and Spider-Man showed up and -”

Peter groans loudly and falls back onto the bed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Flash hurries to say and _boy_ is it strange to hear a genuine apology come out of his mouth. “My point is. You’re just a kid to the rest of New York right now. Most people don’t know you. They don’t know what to believe.”

“They’ll believe it if it’s on the news. And the news means jack shit these days. Unfortunately.”

Flash crosses his arms and shrugs. “Maybe. But as long as they don’t prove it’s you. It’s always just going to be a theory. We-you...No fuck it, I’m helping. _We_ need to keep it a theory. Get it?”

The thing is...Flash has a good point. Revealing his identity was a really smart move on Beck’s part. Because if it turns out that Peter Parker is Spider-Man (which, he is), then it’s safe to assume that Peter Parker Aka Spider-Man (Spider-Parker? Peter-Man?) terrorized London and killed Mysterio (which, he did not). Right?

So, he has to keep _both_ parts of the video under speculation. For as long as he can. Until he can figure something out.

Basically, Peter needs to get the hell out of Dodge. Like, fifteen minutes ago.

“I can’t stay here,” Peter admits to Flash’s perfectly smooth ceiling. He misses his own with the popcorn stucco and the water damage spots. “I have to leave New York. And I can’t go anywhere where cops - SHIELD -”

“- a lynch mob -”

Peter snaps his fingers Flash’s way, like he’s hit the nail right on the head. “- can find me.” He finishes. “There were cops at my house. I can’t go back. They’ll probably arrest me.”

Flash shuffles back and forth on his feet. “Can they just _do that?_ It’s just a video. People dub audio all the time. It’s not enough to issue like, a warrant to search your place.” A pause. “....Right?”

“I don’t really know. But what I do know is that I’m not _you._ I’m not an average citizen. Hell, average citizens don’t always get proper due process, so superhero teens who they think tried to blow up an entire city definitely _don’t._ I go home and it’s straight to the Raft for me.”

It’s a little scary to admit that out loud. He tries not to let his breathing get out of control. 

Flash’s eyes bug out. “You think they’d really send you to the _Raft?”_

“Well, I certainly don’t want to find out!”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I get it. Fine. You don’t go home. You leave, fall off the map. But. Do you...have any place where you can _do that?_ Just...lie low?”

His first thought is sorta. Tony’s old cabin certainly has the _remote_ factor to it but. Spider-Man’s been tied to the Starks for years. They’ll look there. They’ll get there in a day or two, sooner probably. So that won’t work. Which sucks. Because Peter doesn’t know a _soul_ outside of New York City. And the ones he does are all literal superheroes. Who will definitely be questioned by everyone, eventually. He needs a media nobody. Someone that he can trust. That _Tony_ trusted.

Someone who helped save the world without the world even knowing.

“Actually,” Peter breathes out, his heart hammering in his chest in realization. “I...think I just might.”

“Seriously? Where?”

Peter blinks before he taps the emblem on his Spidey suit. It deflates, but still hangs loosely on his shoulders. “I can’t tell you.” Flash looks startled, maybe a little peeved, so he’s quick to amend. “Not because I think you’d snitch -”

“- because I _wouldn’t -”_

“- but the less you know, the better. I don’t know what interrogation tactics they’re gonna use on May, Happy, MJ. Probably Ned.” Peter looks Flash up and down. “Maybe even you.”

Flash looks a little sick at that prospect.

He starts to shimmy out of his suit. They’d been in the same gym class last semester, but it’s obvious that this is the first time Flash has actually been aware of that. He stares at his stomach and scoffs, flicking his hand away and staring down at his carpet, mumbling something about a _fucking six pack this whole time of course you do I bet you faked not being able to climb the rope goddamn I can’t believe you’re Spider-Man._

“I seriously won’t snitch,” Flash says as Peter walks over to his wardrobe. Despite his apparent annoyance a few moments later, he gestures again, this time in an _of course, of course, go right ahead_ motion when Peter silently asks permission to go through his clothes. “I’m not completely evil.”

“I know that,” Peter admits as he starts pulling out some of the bigger t-shirts Flash has. He immediately discards the Midtown High one because _duh._ “But there’s truth serum -”

“There’s _truth serums!?_ That’s not just a myth? That’s insane!” 

“Half the world vanished because some giant purple alien snapped his fingers with magic stones.” He picks out another shirt, too small, tosses it aside. “The Avenger’s time heist almost failed because they forgot to put a cyborg on airplane mood.” He pulls out basketball shorts. Those will do. He puts them on. “I got MJ to agree to be my girlfriend. Truth serum is the least insane thing I’ve heard in the past year.” 

“...Okay, fair.”

Peter ends up finding a NASA shirt and slipping it on. “Okay. Clothes, check. Now I just gotta figure out how I’m gonna get out of the city -”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Flash interrupts. “You.” He stops, looking him up and down. “You can’t seriously think you’re gonna pull off an escape wearing that, do you?”

Peter looks lost. “I...yeah? I don’t really have a choice, Flash. I gotta blend in with the crowds.”

“Yes and no,” he says, cutting him off and marching over to his closet. He pushes back a few pastel colored button ups before he picks out a standard blue one along with a garment bag. He lays them both on the bed and unzips it. And while Peter isn’t really an expert on fancy-schmancy, he’s spent enough time around Tony to know that Flash’s suit is a nice-ass suit. Way nicer than anything he or Ben ever had. 

“This?” Peter says, tugging on the zipper so hard he accidentally rips it off. Whoops. “Is the exact opposite of discrete.”

“It’s _not,”_ Flash presses, pulling the suit completely out on the bed. It’s navy with the faintest pinstripes. 

“I’m gonna look _ridiculous,”_ Peter squeaks out, weakly slapping Flash’s hand away when he tries to hold up the dress shirt to see if it would be a good match for his skin tone. “I’m not some adult with some big shot high-rise office job -”

“Exactly!” Flash nearly screams. “Dude, Mysterio just outed Spider-Man out as some fifteen year old kid. They’re gonna be looking for dudes dressed like you are _right now_. They won’t give the man in a $750 dollar suit and….” He goes back to his closet and pulls out a pair of dress shoes. “Hand painted Italian leather loafers.”

“You _douchebag,”_ Peter whispers, taking the shoes from Flash’s hands. “I can’t believe you have -”

Flash lifts a brow, challenging him to finish that sentence.

“Okay, yeah it’s a little believable.” He stares at the shoes a moment longer before he looks back at the suit on the bed, trying to imagine the whole ensemble. Flash is already trying to find a tie. “You really think I should just...go out in a suit?”

“Absolutely.” He sets three choices of ties down on the bed. They’re all heinous. “We dress you up, give you a suitcase to roll around, a pair of sunglasses, maybe a bluetooth and you’re _golden._ All you have to do is talk about stocks or whatever and bump into a few ladies by the shoulder without saying sorry and I _promise -_ you’ll look like every other asshole New York businessman.”

A terrifying thought crosses Peter’s mind. “Do you think they’ll set up a checkpoint? Around the city?”

Flash blows out a long breath. “Uhhh, I don’t know. I was scrolling through Twitter before you got here and a lot of people are still on your side. Even the NYPD. A sergeant from a precinct in Brooklyn even made a stance in your defense. It might take awhile to, uh -”

“-rally the troops. Got it. So work fast. Before the chance of a checkpoint.”

Flash still looks like he has something on his mind, and Peter wonders if he’ll actually have to convince him to speak his mind for once in his life, but then he goes right out and says it anyway. “...You _really_ think they’d just...take you? Without real proof? And put you on the Raft?”

Oh, Peter realizes. Flash is scared. Scared _for him._

He manages a wry smile. Even in a state of total panic, it seems the Spider-Man part of him is always trying to calm the storm and keep the peace. “I don’t know. But they gotta catch me first. And they won’t catch me. Okay?”

With a slow nod, Flash agrees with Peter, and some of the tension leaves both their shoulders. “Okay,” he mumbles, looking as small as he’s ever looked. “Now. About your hair.”

“...What about my hair?”

“Well, they’ll be looking for a brunette.” Flash hurries out of his room and returns moments later with a box of dye.

Hair dye.

“Blondes have more fun,” Flash sing-songs.

“No,” Peter refuses, crossing his arms. “I don’t need to dye my hair.”

“It can’t _hurt.”_

“Flash, what self-respecting business man has a bad dye job?”

“It won’t be bad! I’ll do a good job! Think of it as a like. I dunno. A summer’s kiss.” He points to the box. “That’s what the color is called. Summer’s Kiss.”

Peter groans, letting his head fall forward, almost hitting his chest.

“It’ll be fine. Look, we just gotta -”

He snaps his head back up, eyes squinted. “Why do you have this, Flash.”

They have a bit of a Mexican Standoff. Who will crack first. It ends up being Flash with a snarl of his lips as he throws the box at Peter’s chest; Peter catches it perfectly. “Shut up. I was _curious.”_

“You were gonna dye your hair _blonde?”_

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“That would look so bad.”

“Well, now it’s going on _your head_ so we don’t have to worry -”

“I’m _not_ letting you near my head and eyes with _bleach,_ are you kidding me?”

A pause. And then Flash lifts his head and makes a _snip-snip_ motion with two fingers. “What about scissors?”

So that’s how Peter ends up in New York’s worst barbershop, AKA Flash’s bathroom. Well, to be fair, Flash isn’t the _worst_ hairdresser. That title will always go to Uncle Ben, but man is Flash edging in for a close second place. He doesn’t cut too-too much off. Mostly just tightens it up on the sides and then goes _ham_ on the hair gel, slicking it back and down to make it look something like Captain America might sport in the 40’s.

“It would look better if you let me dye it blond-”

“No, Flash.”

They end up filling the silence in other ways. Flash, of course, wants to know where his legendary strength and six pack came from, and he doesn’t quite believe him when he tells him a radioactive spider bit him on their school field trip to Oscorp. 

“Wish the spider bit _me_ ,” Flash ends up grumbling when Peter finally threw the hair gel across the bathroom and ripped the batteries out of the electric clippers.

He fusses in the mirror, making sure everything is sort of even before reminding him, “You sound like Ned.”

“Well, Ned gets it.”

“You probably would have had an allergic reaction. Again. Remember when a spider bit you in seventh grade on a camping trip and you had to go to the ER?"

“Yeah, but. I’d have lived. And then been Spider-Man.”

“Not all it’s cracked up to be. Spider-Man is currently framed for murder.”

“My Spider-Man would never let that happen. Now, go get changed. I’ll pack a bag for you.”

He does, and while the suit is a little tight in the arms, it fits remarkably well for something that isn’t tailored to him. Peter tries to ditch the tie after several attempts of trying to use the bathroom mirror to tie it up, but Flash doesn’t let him, and they’re both a little red faced when Flash has to tie it for him, his lessons from Ben, May and even Tony not sticking from the past several years.

“There,” Flash announces once he’s finished with a simple Windsor. Peter tugs pathetically at the eggplant colored fabric, already feeling suffocated. His hands get slapped away. “Don’t mess with it. Keep it on. Here’s the bag -” he hands him a nice suitcase that no doubt has several poorly folded clothes of Flash’s in there. “- and here’s...uh, yeah.”

He tucks a wad of cash into Peter’s other hand.

When he uncurls his fingers, he nearly chokes on his own spit. “How much _is_ this?”

“Two-thousand dollars.”

Peter gawks.

“It’s all the cash I had on me, plus what I could find hidden in my dad’s study.” He shrugs. “I hope that’ll get you to ...wherever you need to go. Unless you need a plane ticket. You don’t need a plane ticket, do you? Please tell me you don’t need a passport.”

“No, I don’t -” he clamps his mouth shut tight, determined not to give away any more information. “Flash, I don’t want your dad to notice all this money is gone. What are you gonna _say?”_

He waves off Peter’s concern. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. He won’t notice for a long time, if at all. He’s not exactly.around, anymore. Much prefers his new girlfriend and life in the Hamptons.”

Peter blinks thrown off guard. He doesn’t exactly keep up with Flash, but he’s pretty sure his parents aren’t divorced. He talked about them all the time _before_ Thanos, but come to think of it. They don’t get the same kinds of mentions these days.

“Mom and I blipped,” Flash goes on, filling in the blanks. “Dad didn’t. He wasn’t too happy that we came back. I think it was…freeing for him.” He taps the cash in Peter’s hand. “Getting him to come home and stay this past year has been nearly impossible. It’s making my mom miserable. This is a very satisfying _fuck you_ to his face.”

“Oh,” Peter whispers, looking down at the wrinkled cash. He pockets it, and yeah, it kinda does feel like a fuck you. He doesn’t know the whole story, but just that tidbit is enough for Peter to feel very bad on Flash’s behalf. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not...enough, or the right thing to say, but -”

Flash holds up a hand. “Seriously, don’t. It’s a complicated story. But it doesn’t compare to what you’re going through.”

Peter shrinks into himself. “I mean, that’s not fair. You shouldn’t compare -”

“I don’t think anyone in New York City has had a shittier year than you have. I’m not wondering if I’m going to get arrested, Parker. Seriously. It’s fine. I’ll - I’ll be fine.”

He looks around the room once more and notices his web shooters are still out, but his suit is gone. Flash nods to the suitcase before telling him he’s folded it safe and sound in an oversized t-shirt. 

“I didn’t pack food.” Flash goes on. “All we had downstairs were peanut butter crackers, but you’re allergic, so.”

Peter blinks as he adjusts the shooters on underneath on his wrists. “Oh. Oh, yeah. I was, right.” 

“Was?”

“Spider bite. No more allergies. I threw away all my inhalers and eat as many peanuts as I want. I’d...actually forgotten about the peanut thing until just now.”

“Huh,” Flash breathes out. “Interesting.” He looks down and kicks weakly at the carpet. “This is so weird.”

“I can’t believe _you_ remember that.”

There’s a quirk of a genuine, warm smile on his face. “Yeah, well. I may have gone to the ER in seventh grade but _you_ were the one that I had to stab with an EpiPen in the sixth when Lauren forgot to mention the cookies she brought had peanut butter chips.”

Peter smiles back. “Look at that. You saved Spider-Man’s life.”

“Who would have thunk.”

They shuffle back and forth on their feet for a few more moments before Peter clutches the suitcase tightly in one hand. Flash tosses him a pair of Ray-bans and lets him know he looks rather snazzy, even with all his Peter Parker-ness. 

“Just don’t get caught. I don’t even want to think about what’s gonna happen to you if you get caught and sent to the fucking _Raft.”_

Peter tugs on the tie again, only this time he pulls the fabric out and all the way up, sticking his tongue out and miming death.

“Quit it,” Flash hisses, grabbing the tie and fixing it once more. “I want my suit back. Someday. So. Figure this out.”

He nods, this time more seriously, before he pushes the sunglasses up to sit on the top of his head. “I can’t...tell you how. But I’ll figure out a way to let you know I’m okay. That I got to where I need to go. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

Flash nods. “I’ll tell your aunt you’re okay. MJ and Ned, too.”

“In person,” Peter stresses. He tries not to think about the phone in the desk drawer. “Please.”

“In person,” Flash agrees easily. “I got your back, man.”

A strange turn of events, for sure. But Peter believes him. “Thanks.”

Flash walks him out of his empty house, pausing only to go to the kitchen to grab those peanut butter crackers after all. The house is all modern and sleek, a lot like Tony’s was, but somehow _colder,_ lacking the warmth that Tony brought along. Even with machines decking out every corner, Tony’s places never felt anything short of homey.

There’s a tall mirror on a wall near the kitchen, right by the foyer. Peter catches his reflection, decked out in thousands of dollars worth of clothes, slicked hair, and some fancy suitcase.

Maybe it’s wrong of him to say, but he kinda looks just like him.

For a brief moment he sees Tony behind him, similarly dressed with the exception of some Guns n Roses tee underneath his suit. Because Tony just has to be like that, all the time. Teeming with quirkiness and style that Peter can never match.

He slides the sunglasses down on his face and Tony disappears, just in time. Flash comes back with the crackers and shoves a pack of them in Peter’s jacket pocket. There’s another one open in his hand, two crackers held between his teeth. “C’mon,” Flash says, mouthful, as he gestures to the garage. “I’ll drop you off as close as I can.”

It isn’t until he sees the car - a sleek new grey Audi - does Peter remember. “Uhhh.”

“Yeah, I’m driving,” Flash says, pushing Peter towards the passenger side. “I remember what happened last time I lent Spider-Man my car.”

He crashed it.

Aw, shit.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Flash mumbles, ducking into the driver’s seat and shutting the door with a loud thud. Peter scrambles to follow suit. “Come to think of it,” he says as he turns it on and Peter buckles his seatbelt. “I didn’t lend it to you as much as you _stole_ it from me.”

There’s nothing he can really say. But he can try to talk himself out of it for fun. “I mean technically I asked and you _gave it to me.”_

“You kind of threatened me. In Batman voice, no less.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

“I heard you the first time,” he sighs, but in all honesty, Flash doesn’t sound that upset. “What’s the easiest way to get out of here, you think?”

They argue for a bit about that as they go west, but eventually they come to an agreement. The radio is decidedly off and Peter spends a few extra minutes making sure the place Flash parks in doesn’t have the great a security camera. 

“You’ll be fine,” Flash assures as he talks to Peter through the rolled down passenger’s side window. “Just don’t screw it up.”

He rolls his eyes behind the sunglasses. “Gee. Thanks.”

“No problem. Parker?”

Peter leans down, an elbow resting on the open window. “Yeah?”

“...I’m sorry.”

There’s a lot to be sorry for, he supposes. “About what?”

“Tony Stark,” he says evenly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Peter’s a little taken aback. He leans away from the window, jaw slack, unable to say anything in return.

“Take care. I mean it.” 

Flash rolls up the window and drives away.

Peter half expects Tony to appear again, but he doesn’t. He’s alone in the city, people bustling about around him. Flash is right about the so-called disguise. No one’s really paying him that much mind. He looks nice, respectable, but not too loud or expensive to draw any real attention. So he makes it to the train station, buys a ticket out of NYC without a hitch, and takes his seat.

The car is surprisingly empty. There’s a few people, but not many. There’s certainly enough room for Peter to stretch his legs, which isn’t that easy considering Flash’s borrowed suit is a little tight. The seat across from his is empty and he stares at it so long his gaze could drill a hole into it. And after awhile, his eyelids grow heavy. Falling asleep on a train isn’t the smartest idea, especially considering his current predicament, but he’s afraid he just might. Which isn’t good.

Last time he fell asleep on a train, he went to jail.

So, he falls into a pattern of letting his eyes close, counting to five, and then opening them again.

After the ninth time, he opens his eyes and sees Uncle Ben sitting across from him.

Unlike Tony, Ben stays. For a long time. Peter doesn’t know how long he stares at him like he’s looking at a mirage, but the image is comforting. It’s like Ben doesn’t know he’s there, even though he’s a figment of his imagination. He’s reading the paper, the news and sports ripped out, the Sunday funnies the only thing he cares about. Just like old times. Peter falls into sleepy, dopey smiles every time he hears Ben laugh and almost lets out a laugh of his own when a particular comic tickles him pink and has him doubled over laughing, face red. Ben was always like this: easily amused, bright and cheeky in the early morning as he sat at their little breakfast table, a box of donuts from Peter’s favorite shop between them. He can almost picture him reaching out for a strawberry sprinkle one. When Peter was extra little, Ben would leave a sprinkle in the corner of his mouth, just so Peter had something to giggle at first thing in the morning.

The memory is enough to make him laugh. It’s enough to make him cry. He ends up doing a little bit of both.

He sniffles and Ben looks up, surprised, before his face relaxes into familiar ease. “Heya, kiddo.” he says.

So far, Peter’s accepted them: tricks of light, ghosts, hallucinations, whatever they are. But he hasn’t talked back. He’s only crazy if he talks back, he figures. But in that moment, Peter can’t help it. He’s tired, he’s scared, he’s lonely.

And Ben’s smile could save the world.

 _Hey_ , he mouths, not able to completely commit. _I love you._

Ben understands just fine. He winks, mouths _love you too,_ and goes back to the paper.

Peter’s staring at the ink on the pads of Ben’s fingers, wondering how his brain could be so detailed, so cruel, before the hell of a day he’s had catches up to him.

He falls asleep.

Hopefully, he won’t wake behind bars this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, I know it said it would be a week!!!! I increased my hours of work a week for the first time since I got sick and it's been a little tiring but I'm back babeh!!!! a couple of things  
> 1\. thank you so much for replying and leaving comments on my fic, before I post this chapter, I'm going to go back and reply to all of them from the first two. I haven't been very good at that, but I want to be better, so I'll try to be more timely! I hope you know I do appreciate your comments even when I don't individually address them!!! I swear I do lmfao  
> 2\. I hope my interpretation of flash was to your liking. I actually quite like how he's set up in the mcu (hashtag rip spidey mcu amirite) because he really doesn't scream BULLY-BULLY as he's sometimes depicted in a lot of fics. he just seems. annoying. lmfao. but I think flash and peter could get along if they needed to for sure.  
> thank you so much again!!! next chapter....You Know who gonna show up


	4. Getting Footloose

When Peter wakes up from his short cat nap, he is blessedly not arrested and his uncle is nowhere to be seen. It’s a cherry on top of the realization that slipping out of New York turns out to be easier than he had expected.

He doesn’t know if it’s all due to the disguise Flash gifted him, his knee-jerk reaction to run for the hills in a timely manner, or some cosmic force giving him a _break_ for _once_ in his life. Whatever the reason, he’s grateful. The train takes him out of the city to Newark where he fumbles around a bit before he makes it to a bus station and boards a Greyhound destined for Atlanta with numerous stops along the way. In D.C he gets a chance to get out and stretch his legs and, with the help of some cheap eye reading glasses from a Walgreen's and purposeful avoidance of eye contact, he manages to borrow someone’s phone to figure out where he needs to ditch this bus in order to get another.

Eventually, he finds a bus heading for Nashville. It makes a pit stop in a small town called Duck Springs, which is apparently 5.7 miles from Rose Hill, Tennessee.

That’ll have to do. 

It’s not gonna be the most _relaxing_ walk he’s ever taken, but Peter’s had worse. Hobbling around the Netherlands hurt a bit. Walking home in those Hello Kitty pajamas was a different kind of hurt, but regardless, it sure as hell wasn’t fun. There’s really no one around, so it’s bound to be at least somewhat peaceful. As long as he can make it by nightfall and…..wolves or whatever it is that lives in Tennessee wilderness don’t come out and attack him, he should be fine. Maybe he’ll take the opportunity to reflect in silence, to come up with a more concrete plan once he makes it to Rose Hill -

“So what, you’re just gonna walk there?”

Oh, this isn’t fair.

Peter groans, hanging his head. “Please go away,” he mumbles under his breath “Please go away, please go away -”

“At least take off your suit jacket,” Tony tells him, appearing out of the corner of his eye. He’s close, almost in his face, and Peter watches as he very nearly almost picks up his tie. “Take that off, too, that color is hideous.”

The tie’s been loosened considerably in his bus rides, but Peter goes ahead and yanks the whole thing clear off. He kind of wants to just let it flutter away into the dirt, but he shoves in his bag instead before he takes a quick pace to walk down the shoulder of the little, two-lane highway.

“That’s some speed for someone in shoes that are a half size off,” Tony says, jogging a few steps to catch up with him. 

Peter shrugs off the jacket this time, draping it over the arm with the suitcase as he walks.. Tony keeps running his mouth about something and Peter uses every bit of his superpowered hearing and sight to lend his attention elsewhere. The road is slightly muddy from recent rain and the edges of the soy crop field are full of stubby, sparse plants. The land is still relatively flat, but still rolling, and Peter remembers the bus ride from the Appalachians, how the mountains slowly wilted into hills. It’s not quite sunset but it’s getting close; light puckers behind fluffy lavender clouds creating flashes of gold halos against orange tinted skies. Peter almost thinks _hey that’s kind of pretty, this is pretty serene-_ when the wind blows and it feels - 

It feels like a _touch -_

“ _Stop!”_

He whirls around like he’s been snuck up on, the suitcase tumbling out of his hand; the suit jacket falls into the road. Tony’s looking at him, wide-eyed and confused, hands up in surrender like he means no harm. He’s still dressed in the three piece Tom Ford which, to Peter, is just _odd._ After their first few initial meetings, Tony dressed up less and less around him. The ties came off, then the dress shirts were replaced with vintage t-shirts and more casual looking slacks and jackets. The last few months Peter can’t recall hardly ever seeing Tony out of his own athletic wear of his design, especially when he was fine-tuning the nano technology.

He wonders why his brain is conjuring up _this_ Tony. This is the Tony that was only his idol and not his friend.

He feels a bit intimidated and anxious and fourteen years old all over again.

“Stop,” he begs again. “Just...stop.” Peter licks his lips and he feels every crack in his skin. “What - What are you?”

Tony’s confusion melts away to make room for elation. “Aha!” he shouts, snapping his fingers. At least that’s what it looks like. Peter doesn’t hear the sound. “He speaks! I knew you’d come around, bud.”

“That’s not -” Peter stops short, shaking his head. Some of his hair is slick with sweat when he runs a hand through it. “What _are_ you?”

“You know who I am.”

He rolls his eyes at the classic jab. “What I meant was, are you _real?”_

“Of course not. I’m dead.”

As much as that’s a fact that Peter has known for months, it hits different coming out of Tony’s mouth. He steps back, cowering like he’s been struck, like he’s heard the news for the very first time.

Tony just stands there watching him like one might watch a caged animal at the zoo. He even tilts his head in curiosity. “You know this,” Tony says softly. “You know this.”

There’s something terrifying and comforting in those words. All too many times, when Peter was frustrated with the mechanics of his suit, couldn't find the answer to a study question for decathlon, or he was simply grappling with the moral rights and wrongs concerning superheroing decisions, Tony more or less always told him the same thing: _you know this. it’s you. of course you know this_

Well, breaking news: Peter most definitely does not know what _this_ is. 

“I don’t have time for this,” Peter grumbles, mostly to himself, but Tony still picks it up, following him as he scrambles to pick up his suitcase and dirty jacket.

“Actually, you _do_ have time for this,” Tony corrects him. Peter can see him out of the corner of his eye and he _hates it._ This is the longest time one of his Tony illusions has stuck around; and what more he won’t shut the fuck up. “There isn’t anyone for miles. No one to hear you talk to yourself. Or, well. Me. It’s a long walk to what _passes_ as civilization down here. So! Theories. Let’s hear ‘em.”

Okay. Fine. He’ll indulge. “I’m dreaming. I never got off the plane from NYC,” Peter deadpans. It’s a thought he entertained himself with when he wasn’t dozing off on the bus. “Ned gave me too much Nyquil and I’m still asleep.”

“Nyquil doesn’t affect you.”

Peter slows at that, but doesn’t stop walking; only glances out of the corner of his eyes before adjusting the suitcase in his grip. “Right,” he yields. “Well,” he begins with a sigh, “Maybe Fury accidentally nerfed _me_ with a tranquilizer. That way I can still be dreaming.”

“You’re really hung up on the whole dreaming scenario.”

He snorts. “Wouldn’t you? The other options are a little less appealing.” 

Tony jogs ahead of him, spinning around so he’s doing a backwards little jog-skip ahead of Peter. It’s a sight to see. Peter used to do it to Tony all the time and he remembers the older man _begging him_ to stop because he was so sure Peter would trip over a trashcan or run into a streetlight. He never did, never _does,_ because that’s what powers and tingles are for, but Peter can see how it made him uneasy. There isn’t even anyone out here and Peter’s still nervous that Tony-But-Not-Tony will fall into the road.

“Okay, so,” Tony gives a half shrug. “What are the other unappealing options?”

“I dunno,” Peter tries to play down the seriousness of the shitshow that’s been the last couple of days. “New superpower?”

“That’s _unappealing?”_

“If I’m hallucinating a dead man, yes. It’s very unappealing.”

“If it’s a superpower, it’s not a hallucination. You’d be seeing into another dimension. The afterlife, I guess. The dimension of the dead. Which, once upon a time I’d call a bunch of horseshit, but then we met that Mister Weirdo -”

“Doctor Strange.”

“I didn’t see the doctorate hanging up in his little sanctum. Anyway, could be possible.” Tony shrugs. “Guess ghosts could be real. Which is good news for you.” Tony’s grin widens. “You _love_ ghosts. You said you wanted to see one one day. What’s that show you’re always watching? Buzzfeed Unsolved -”

“Not _your_ ghost!”

Peter stops there, the suitcase collapsing to the ground before the rest of him crumples with it. He crouches on the balls of his heels, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from _whimpering,_ while both hands find refuge in his hair, holding on to strands with tight fists. 

“Not your ghost,” he repeats again, voice jagged like shards of glass. “I can’t -” He stops with a moan, shaking his head kept firmly between his palms. “Never your ghost, Mister Stark.”

Peter waits and listens: for footsteps against the crumbling pavement on the edges of the road, for his suit jacket fluttering in the wind, for the little sniff he sometimes did when he was about to make a sarcastic quip. It never comes. He just hears the rustle of leaves, the faint sounds of cicadas, and the ragged sound of his own breath.

Tony’s not really there. 

And yet.

“Kid.”

Peter lifts his head, his whole body springing up like a coil. Tony’s not there, at least he isn’t where he was moments before, so Peter turns his head and then he’s _there,_ right behind him and down the road a ways and -

\- he’s aged five years.

“There’s more grey in your hair,” Peter mumbles, meek and timid, but he’s unable to look away.

Tony’s smile slants into something almost...pitying. “So you’ve said.”

Peter takes a few steps toward him: timid, like a wounded animal being offered food. His footsteps crumble against the pavement, and he hears a sniff, but it’s his own, and he hastens to wipe his running nose with the back of his sleeve. 

Up close, the aging is extremely obvious: more wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, the peppered beard, the (dare he even think it) slight receding hairline. Peter saw him like this on the ruins of the battlefield for a moment; really, just for just a few seconds. Their last moments together were spent with him scooped up in Tony’s arms. He’s not positive, but he’s pretty sure he remembers being kissed on the side of his head. Just like Ben used to. 

“I have a good memory,” Peter whispers. “Or you’re a very detailed ghost.”

The smile loses some of its pity. “Your memory is good, whether I’m a ghost or not.”

“This isn’t helping me narrow down the possible causes of my mental spiral.”

A full-on, Tony Stark snark grin. “God, I’m always supposed to be fixing problems aren’t I? Even dead, I really am the hero.”

Peter loses himself in his thoughts for a moment, his photographic memory reliving snapshots of the multi- _billion_ dollar tech he literally shoved inside a wall in his apartment. 

“Pete.”

He blinks, and Tony’s gone. He whirls around only to find him once more - decked out in a broken and busted out Iron Man suit. His arm is burned. His face is scarred. Peter knows it’s not real but _god:_ he can _smell_ the charred and electrified pieces of hair burning around his right ear. Tony’s smile is still there: the same as it was when he was dying. The corners of his lips are held up by sheer will only, his eyes watering in relief and _pain._

Somehow the love shines through. 

Peter’s sight blurs with his own tears. He hiccups, failing to choke down a sob as he left his arm, ready to grip the front of Tony’s suit. He wants to touch the arc reactor that’s still glowing, but fading with every passing moment. Was it really just so short? Did Tony snap his fingers and fade this fast? Peter was _there_ but all he remembers is it feeling like an eternity and a blink of an eye all wrapped up in one and how does _that_ make sense?

“This is _cruel.”_ Peter’s voice is thick like molasses, wrecked with grief. “Why are you _doing this?”_

Just like those last few moments on the battlefield, Tony doesn’t respond to Peter’s pleas.

But he still smiles.

It’s Peter’s favorite and least favorite smile of Tony’s.

It’s all too much. He drops his hand and spins sharply on his heel, eyes screwed shut and head bowed to the dirt below. He concentrates again on the sounds of nature around him. Birds and bugs and sweat and yeah, sweat doesn’t really have a sound but Peter tries to assign it one and it’s only when he feels the wind leave a relaxing breeze to the sweaty nape of his neck does he open his eyes and - 

Tony’s gone. In every direction, he’s finally gone.

But for the first time, Peter truly doesn’t know whether or not he wants it to stay that way.

* * *

Turns out Southern hospitality has a little truth to it, at least when it comes to hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere. After about two miles of Tony-less walking, some old guy in a pick up truck with a friendly border collie sitting in the bed gives him a ride. Part of Peter is a little hesitant. But the guy doesn’t seem to know him and Peter supposes he could always...web him up and run if it turns out he does know exactly who he is. So he gets in the truck.

The setting sun catches the light on the dog’s name tag - _Bones -_ and Peter gives him as many ear scratches, cuddles and whispers of, _“Who’s a good boy?”_ as he can until the truck rolls lazily into Rose Hill, stopping at the first light in town. 

It’s a four way stop. There’s some shops ahead in eye’s view, as well as a large water tower, but for now, it seems Rose Hill’s welcome sign is actually just a kitschy looking gas station with Christmas lights _still up_ juxtaposed with a worn statue of a Native American chief - he’s got pants, but no shirt. Go figure.

There’s a phone booth. Peter didn’t know there were still phone booths anywhere in America.

Peter lightly knocks on the back window to get the driver’s attention before he throws a thumb over his shoulder. The window’s open, so he figures he can hear him just fine when Peter says, “I’ll just get off here," he tells him, hastily shoving his suit jacket and tie in his luggage.

“You sure? I can take you a little further if you need.”

Peter’s already hopping out of the bed of the truck, giving Bones one last pat on the head. “This is great. Thanks so much, sir.”

The truck’s muffler spits out a small puff as the driver shifts gears and continues up the road into town and out of sight. Peter’s left on the front porch of the convenience store beside the gas pumps. His foot ends up kicking at the one of the floorboards loose with dry rot for a few moments before he spares the chief one last glance and heads inside.

The inside looks like any other bodega in Queens, which is a bit of a comfort. The only difference is that there’s actually space to walk around between the aisles. It’s got all the gas station stop essentials: candy, sodas, beers, batteries, cheap headphones, ibuprofen, bandaids, a cat sleeping on top of the aisle of potato chips.

Peter contemplates clearing out the whole selection of ibuprofen, but he settles on two bottles and prays it cures his spider-strength headaches and hallucinations. It probably won’t do either, but it’s worth a shot. He stalls a bit in front of the fridge before he ends up grabbing a bottle of Dr. Pepper and heads for the register.

On the way over, he passes the candy - they have the weird foreign cherry candies that his girlfriend loves so much. The ones he’s only seen at that _one_ weird little bodega in Queens.

And they have them here. In Bumfuck, Nowhere. Go figure.

He grabs as many as he can carry, which is to say: their whole supply.

The girl behind the counter looks like the world’s most bored teenager, and that’s saying something considering he knows Michelle Jones. She’s got a long braid of strawberry blonde hair and a torn, faded, cropped shirt with an emblem that says _Rose Hill Thorns_ that he can see poking out from underneath an oversized flannel. 

When their eyes meet there’s no recognition in her eyes. Which is a relief. He’s been hoping Spider-Man is still a little more New York news rather than _worldwide news._ And while it’s certainly spread elsewhere, maybe it hasn’t quite gotten to the town that still has a phone booth outside their like, only gas station.

Maybe.

When she shifts her weight, the flannel falls open and he can see she’s got a run-of-the-mill plastic name tag on.

_Ariel._

It’s not a common name. It’s the name of the little mermaid, the spirit in that Shakespeare play and - 

_(Is it still the greatest movie of all time?_

_It...never was)_

“Footloose.”

She tilts her head and her expression pinches into slight confusion before she sees where his eyes were when he said it. She looks down, adjusts the slight crookedness of the tag, and gives him a small, if slightly, bored smile when she looks up.

“Yep,” she agrees. “Like the girl in Footloose. Welcome to Bomont adjacent.” 

God he can’t believe he said that out loud. How embarrassing for him. And his soul. 

“Do you know where these are from?” Peter finds himself asking as he dumps his haul onto the counter, showing her the candy for clarification. He’s pretty sure he knows where they’re from, but he can’t help it. Running his mouth when he’s nervous is one of his many faults - why else would Spider-Man talk so much during a fight? 

The bored expression turns out to be a bit of a facade, or at least just her default expression. Her posture straightens and she’s more alert as she plucks the candy out of Peter’s hands. “I haven’t sold this in _ages,”_ she muses, looking over the packaging. “It’s Japanese.” She looks down at the pile he’s collected. “Must be pretty good, judging by your collection.”

“Uh,” Peter kind of stutters around. Small talk isn’t his strong suit. “I dunno? Maybe. My girlfriend likes them. She loves cherry candy. Thought I’d try them.”

“Has she had a Big Cherry?”

“A...Big Cherry?”

The girl holds up her finger and then literally vaults over the counter to go to the candy; if not for his senses, her red boots would have almost whacked him in the chin and taken him out. She clicks her tongue as she scans the candy, letting out a little _aha!_ when she finds what she’s looking for, returning with two bright pink candy bars.

“These have _no_ right being this damn good.” She rips one open and splits it in half, passing one half over to Peter. “Go on. Be dazzled.”

He follows her lead and ends up putting the whole piece in his mouth like she does. It’s certainly a heroic sized bite, but Ariel’s right: he’s dazzled.

“Good right?” she asks, mouth full.

Well, if she’s doing it. “Wow.” He tries to cover his mouth when he talks in case some chocolate comes flying out and hits her in the face or something. With his luck these days, he just doesn’t know. “That _is_ pretty good.” He scoots the other, unopened package with the rest to purchase.

Ariel finishes ringing him up. “Your grand total comes to $26.50 and probably about two cavities.” 

Peter reaches out into his pocket and thumbs through Flash’s cash - it’s mostly hundreds, but he has a few twenties, and he tosses two on the counter just as the Not Bodega cat comes over to snag a bit of attention. Her tail swipes underneath his chin as she walks across the counter.

And try as Peter might, he’s still in an expensive suit, expensive shoes, thumbing through a couple of hundreds in the middle of nowhere. Ariel’s bound to pick up something’s off, which is fine. He just hopes it’s not the whole _Spider-Man_ thing.

Without looking Ariel reaches over and scratches the top of the cat’s head. “Where are you from, anyway? The get-up is very….” he gestures to his outfit with one lazy hand. “Business casual.”

“New York,” he answers, lips in a tight awkward smile because ah, shit. Probably should have lied about that. But hey, he still feels like he’s in the clear. He figures now’s as good a time as any to start asking where he needs to be heading. “I’m actually here to visit a friend. His name’s Harley Keener? You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him?” 

The register dings as she opens it for the transaction to get his change. “Harley Keener,” she repeats, like it’s a word from another language. Her eyes are down on the drawer as she counts. “You came all the way down here from New York and you don’t even know where his house is?”

Peter shrugs as Ariel drops the change into his palm He hastens to stuff into his pocket. “It’s, uh. A long story.”

She hums, nodding slightly, as she looks him up and down. It takes everything in Peter not to fidget under her scrutiny as he stuff his purchases in a little paper bag. “Well,” Ariel says with a heavy sigh before Peter’s about to high tail it out of there. “Give me about ten minutes or so to lock up. I’ll drive you over there.”

“Really?” Peter blurts out a little too quickly. “Uh, I mean. You don’t have to? I can walk -”

“Walk? You can’t make it before sundown on foot.” She snorts, already pulling the drawer back out and doing the end of the day counting. “I saw you lift a ride from Mister Reilly, so I know you don’t have a car. Wouldn’t be good town hospitality if I let you wander around in the dark to get eaten up by coyotes.”

“...You guys have coyotes?”

“You wanna find out?”

So Peter waits. He wanders around the store to stare at everything and nothing - he ends up reorganizing one of the candy shelves while Ariel closes up shop. She jiggles her keys in the air to grab his attention, her body leaning against the open door of the shop. “Grab Skywalker, she comes with us.”

As if on cue the fluffy white cat snakes between Peter’s legs. He’s usually had pretty good luck with cats as Spider-Man, and this is no exception. Skywalker purrs loudly when he scoops her up with the arm that isn’t holding his suitcase and cuddles her to his chest.

Huh: Skywalker and Bones. The debate follows him no matter what state he ends up in.

While she locks up, Peter’s left to awkwardly stand alone on the porch. He must stare at the chief statue a little too long because Ariel ends up saying, “Yeah, we’re not trying to flex his ab workout. Someone stole his poncho years ago.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Maybe they were cold. There was the strangest snowstorm that year. I know I wasn’t prepared. I don’t think I owned closed toed shoes.” 

Peter has a hard time imagining trudging through the snow in flip flops. 

Ariel finishes locking up with a rough pull of the door to double check before she stuffs the keys in the back pocket. Peter lingers by the phone booth. He can’t help but ask, “Does this still work?”

“Surprisingly. Yes.” Ariel says, coming up beside him to marvel at it like it’s one of the seven wonders of the world. In some ways, it probably is. At least, Tony would make that joke. Peter’s just glad he has an option for a phone if he needs one. “Lord, it’s gotta be the last of its kind. I’ve been begging the mayor to make a sign outside of town that says _Rose Hill - Home of the World’s Last Working Phone Booth -_ you know, like those places with the world’s biggest ball of twine and shit.” Peter cracks a small grin. “I thought it could bring in tourism, a big maybe sure, but you never know. But then the mayor said tourism is a little _dead_ in this country ever since well. Half it turned to dust.”

He doesn’t really know what the say to that. Obviously, the effects of the snap and eventual blip has had its toll on him, but Peter’s world shifted a lot more on the whole superhero - Spider-Man front, if he’s being honest. The whole of his decathlon team, May, even Mr. Delmar were dusted and brought back. His immediate circle of friends didn’t change. He knows that’s not the case for everyone. But with all that’s gone on, Peter can admit he hasn’t had the time or energy to entertain the thought of being the one who lived in the five year gap of the decimation. 

“Are you…were you...?” He nearly bites his tongue clear off. It’s not a question he asks a lot, but he always trips over his words when he does.

Luckily, she picks up what he’s trying to get at. “I stuck around.” Ariel smiles. “I’m guessing you didn’t.”

For the past year it’s always been practically written on his face that he left. But this time there’s the added fear that she just knows he’s Spider-Man, because everyone knows Spider-Man got dusted.

He takes a deep breath to try and calm himself. She doesn’t seem to know. His patented Peter Tingle is quiet. All of his frayed nerves are the Peter Parker part of him.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, bowing his head slightly to bury his face in Skywalker’s fur. “Yeah, I left.”

“Well,” Ariel puffs out her cheeks and lets out a deep breath. “You came back, yeah? And just think. If you hadn’t, you would have missed all these archaeological relics.” She gestures to the phone booth. “C’mon. Car’s this way.”

In Peter’s opinion, Ariel drives a car that’s way too cool and expensive for someone their age: a bright red vintage Mustang. “How did you get this?”

“My brother,” she answers smoothly, hopping into the convertible without opening the door. Peter can’t manage that with the cat. Or, well, he can. But not without giving away he’s Spider-Man. So he awkwardly uses the door. “He doesn’t use it much. So it’s pretty much mine. Careful with Skywalker.” She gestures to the cat without looking as the car roars to life. “Claws might come out in the car.”

They do, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. The faint, tiny stings in his arms will heal in thirty minutes, tops. Besides, the pain is nothing to the view. Peter’s seen a few spectacular views in his life, especially when he can climb as many tall buildings as he can. But there’s something enchanting about the soft, rolling hills and open fields. In New York, there’s a feeling of power and strength that comes from overlooking the city. Here, he feels small, but not necessarily insignificant. He feels like he blends in. He’s Peter Parker from Queens, not Spider-Man, the next Tony Stark.

The sun’s finally dipped underneath the horizon, but the light isn’t all gone. The sky is still bruising pastel blues and purples, but when Peter lifts his head straight up, he can see the stars poking through. “How’s the light pollution here?”

“Not bad,” Ariel says as the pull out of the three stop town and onto some dirt road. Meanwhile, Peter shoves down the feeling that she’s gonna drive them to a police station or off a cliff. His Peter Tingle isn’t...tingling. He’s fine. Still. His anxiety makes him twitchy, and the cat isn’t helping. He resorts to fiddling with the slap bracelet, snapping it on and off his wrist. “You can see a lot of constellations. Onion Ring, Cannabis Major, Cannabis _Minor,_ Dorito -”

Peter brings his head down while his face screws up in disgust and confusion. “Those are - not right.”

She snorts, drumming her fingers against the wheel. “I’m sure there’s a constellation that looks like an onion ring somewhere in the sky.”

He tilts back to look at the sky once more. Back on the spaceship that hurled him to Titan, Peter had been a little busy with plans to not…die there, that he hadn’t had the time to really look out the window and geek out. There are so many different stars and constellations that he’s seen out of the corner of his eye that he can’t commit to memory.

He makes a mental note to look for that onion ring constellation after all.

The house that Ariel ends up pulling up next to isn’t exactly the loner farm house he imagined. Well, okay it is. There’s a house across the street, but that’s it. But it still doesn’t give him a whole lot of options if Harley Keener doesn’t want anything to do with him.

It’s only when he’s sitting in an idling car in front of his house does Peter even consider that Harley might not believe him. His planning skills are really top notch these days.

But it’s too late to turn back now. After a few extra slaps of his slap bracelet and a discrete adjustment of his webshooters, Peter moves all his things around while trying not to agitate Skywalker. “Okay, well. Thanks. Hey, maybe I’ll -”

Ariel turns off the car and jumps out without, again, using the door.

“You comin’?” She asks, not bothering to look at him from over her shoulder. When he opens the passenger side door Skywalker scrambles out and heads to the back of the house just Ariel scuffs her boots on the mat outside the door, and walks right inside.

Poor Peter’s paranoia goes bananas thinking about living in a house without locking the doors at night.

But he still follows her at a slow pace, like he’s approaching some sort of haunted house, expecting a ghost inside. He’s only in the threshold of the house, staring at old floral wallpaper on the walls when Ariel gives him a little push back out on the porch. “He must be in the garage.” She pulls his suitcase out of his hands and sets it inside next to the umbrella holder before she skips off the porch.

So. Looks like he’s staying.

He follows her to what he supposes is a _garage._ Looks more like a shed. He spots Skywalker's bright white fur shining like the moon in the slightly browning grass by said shed. She’s got a buddy with fur black as night. He hopes to dear _God_ that cat’s name is Darth Vader. 

Just like the house, the shed isn’t locked. “Harley~!” Ariel sing-songs, opening the shed with a high kick. Very dramatic. When the door opens the harsh sounds of rock music play at lullaby volume and there he is, Harley Keener, bent over a workbench that’s covered in various layers of papers, grease, tools and what is probably Cheetos dust.

The workbench is a bit of a mess but the shed as a whole?

Amazing.

It’s something Tony would have owned. State of the art. Professional, with all the messiness of a creator and mechanic. It is, in Peter’s humble opinion, immaculate. It looks just like something Tony would have designed and made.

Which, a second later, he realizes that he likely _did._

“Hey,” Harley says, not even looking up. “You bring pizza back like I asked?”

“Nope!” Ariel says, delightfully, as she takes a running start to jump on the large, rough-looking futon against one of the walls. She has to curl her legs up to share space with the life size replica of the _Iron Man suit sitting on the futon._

To borrow Ned’s vernacular: so, so cool.

Still, Harley doesn’t look up. Peter stands with his hands by his side, fingers curling and uncurling before he gives in to his anxiety and starts snapping and unsnapping the tiger print snap bracelet on his arm. “Soda?” Harley tries again.

“Nooo, didn’t do that either,” She hums as she stretches out, resting her head on the Iron Man suit’s lap. She flicks at the helmet, moving the head to the side. 

“Damn, Ariel, did you bring back _anything_ good?”

“I found Spider-Man, does that count?”

Harley finally whips his head up just as Peter feels all the blood drain from his face at _light speed._ God, he’s probably so pale people will think _he’s_ the ghost haunting this house.

Of course she recognized him. Parker luck strikes again.

But before Peter can think of fainting or internally combusting or like, _both,_ Harley gives him a larger-than-life grin. And not the creepy, crazed _I’m gonna kill you, Spider-Man_ smile that Beck gave him. It looks like he’s genuinely happy to see him.

“Yeah,” Harley agrees, twirling a pencil between his fingers. “I’d say that definitely counts.”

 _I’m something good,_ he tells himself. _Harley called Spider-Man something_ good. 

It gives him hope. A single, shining star of hope.

(He’ll make a constellation of it yet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um. yeah.  
> ive been tired and busy and rewrote this like 3 times. the one-shots I posted previous were just. easier. anyway. hoped you enjoyed sorry for the wait!!!!!! again!!!!


	5. Fire Town

Peter ends up falling asleep in Harley’s garage, curled up next to the Iron Man replica.

Not on purpose, of course. Peter had barely sat down, Ariel giving up her seat so that she and her brother could fill him in on everything that is SpiderGate. They didn’t really get past basic pleasantries like _hi how are you_ and _oh you know framed for murder_ and _don’t forget terrorism_ and Ariel’s request of _can I sit courtside at your trial._ The exhaustion hit him like a tsunami and he remembers his eyes drooping as Harley and Ariel go back and forth about dinner because _look at him he needs PIZZA and SO DO I how dare you come home WITHOUT IT_ which inevitably turned into a discussion of who was going to go get it. He never did find out if they put ham on it because the cold metal of the Iron Man suit might as well have been a memory foam pillow: he was out like a light before he knew it.

When he wakes up, it’s well into the next morning. Someone’s put a blanket around him and shoved a pillow into Iron Man’s lap, which he never used, but a soft looking calico cat seems to be enjoying it. With caution, he gives the cat a scratch on the top of the head and he’s rewarded by a soft chirp as she wakes up and looks at him sleepily. She yawns, stretches, and then curls up and goes back to sleep. 

As Peter fully sits up, he’s well aware that he’s _still_ in Flash’s button up and slacks - he’s in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. Some of that pizza, if they got it, wouldn’t hurt either. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

Fashioning the blanket around his shoulders, Peter holds it tight at the front, tucking it right beneath his chin. He spends a few minutes looking at the Iron Man suit. Back when Peter’s internship was kind of sort of a real thing and he and Tony were hanging out and working every other day, Peter got around to intimately knowing all the marks of his suit. After a quick glance, Peter knows this one is based off of Mark 42. The one that Tony used when he, Rhodey and Pepper were dealing with Killian.

“What are you looking at?” Peter grumbles softly. The head is turned so it’s looking right at him and he fears it might move on its own accord. Peter curls his fingers in a gentle fist before knocking the helmet with his knuckles, spinning it the other way. 

He waits for Tony’s voice to spit out some affronted quip, but it never happens. 

He’s safe, for now.

The sound of squeaking metal is enough of a commotion for the cat to be annoyed - she yawns again as she stands and stretches out; her name tag reads _Leia_ and Peter smiles. The cat hops off the pillow to head for the door. When she notices it’s closed she turns her head back around, meows softly, and starts pawing at the wood.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Peter says, holding the blankets around him as he hobbles to open the door. She slinks out and disappears while Peter heads for the house. The front screen door is closed, but the main door is open, so he decides he’ll just...walk in. It’s not breaking and entering if they let him sleep in the garage, right? And even if it is, he’s got murder and terrorism charges, so. What’s trespassing to the list, really?”

The Keener’s home reminds him of Ned’s grandmother’s house. The walls have a dark stained wainscoting, while the rest of the wall is painted a soft, warm yellow that’s probably called _Daffodil_ or _Morning Light._ All of the furniture is oversized, and _none_ of it matches. Peter’s not used to seeing large houses with room for trinkets and giant paintings and a small collection of glass roosters hidden in a large china cabinet. 

“Peter!” Ariel calls from the kitchen. “We’re in the kitchen! I made you breakfast!”

 _“_ No, _I_ made you breakfast!” Harley corrects, and Peter manages a shell of a smile at the bickering. “Ariel can’t cook.”

“I can cook, you just don’t like blueberries in your pancakes. Which by the way: _monster.”_

The kitchen is similarly decorated to the living room and hallways he saw on his way inside: striped wallpaper, white and yellow, the wainscoting painted white. It’s an open shelving concept that Peter’s familiar with - the fronts of the cabinets are simply missing, scratches of brown where the hinges were evidence that the doors had fallen off a long time. The stove looks new, though.

The smell of coffee is strong and it’s all Peter can concentrate on as he sits at the round kitchen table. As he folds the blanket behind the chair, Ariel slides his mug - _See Rock City!_ \- his way as Harley moves a plate of blueberry-less pancakes in front of him. They both push around the butter, peanut butter, syrup, and fruit until they think their placement is correct. Then they sit.

And stare.

Peter keeps his eyes down and busies himself with pouring milk in his coffee before he fumbles for the jar of peanut butter and starts to slap it on his pancakes. Ever since Flash mentioned his old allergy, he’s had a craving for the stuff, oddly enough. It’s only when he’s pouring the syrup on does he say, “I can _hear_ you staring.”

“Sorry,” Ariel apologizes. “First time having a superhero in my house. Going over appropriate conversation starters in my head but all I can think of are highly personal inquiries.”

Harley gives her a disbelieving look.

Ariel shrugs, as if to say _don’t blame me._ “Tony Stark doesn’t count. I didn’t meet him.”

“He was still in the house.”

“I mean, I know _that._ He stole my Dora the Explorer watch.”

“I’m telling you, he didn’t.”

“Are you telling me _you_ stole it? And wore it to school to show all your friends?”

Harley opens his mouth in defense, and Peter can tell there’s something he _wants_ to say, but the payoff isn’t worth the explanation. Tony’s told him the story of Killian once or twice and he distinctly remembers the stand-out detail of a Dora the Explorer watch, so he has a feeling Ariel isn’t too far off with her theory.

She cuts a piece of her pancake and stuffs it in her mouth before she points with her sticky fork and says, “That’s what I thought.” A piece of her food flies out and hits Harley in the face and he groans, rubbing his cheek with his sleeve. “Iron Man, hero of the universe, swiped my novelty watch.” She moves her hand and points the fork at Peter. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a serial novelty watch swiper. What’d he take of yours?” She eyes him up and down. “Your Slytherin watch?”

“I’m a Hufflepuff,” Peter answers without thinking, nor with any enthusiasm. He takes a large sip of coffee and stares back down at his plate.

“Not according to the news. They’re straight up painting you as Voldemort.” There’s a grunt, the sound of Harley kicking Ariel’s shin under the table, followed by some swearing. She then attempts to deflect by asking, “Do the webs like, _shoot out of you?”_

“Ariel!”

“What!? I told you, personal inquiries. Plus, it’s a valid question.” She pushes Harley’s hands away from her when he tries to pinch her arm. “They’re synthetic, right? They’ve got to be synthetic.”

“They’re synthetic,” Peter agrees flatly.

She snaps her fingers. “Knew it. There’s rumors that they like. Hide under your skin. Which like, how would that work?” She takes an obscenely large bite of food and continues to talk with her mouth full. “That's so nasty. You should get on it. People shouldn't think you ooze spider goo."

Yeah, there’s a lot of rumors that Peter should _get on._ It’s why he’s here. But he doesn’t have the energy, nor the heart to snap at her. With his senses heightened, he can easily tell when someone else is nervous, and Ariel is giving off some serious anxiety. He knows she’s running her mouth to try and distract him, make light of the situation, maybe make him feel better. It’s not working, like, at all, but he appreciates the effort.

Peter cuts into his pancake, tries to keep calm. Other people’s anxieties sometimes rub off on him, at least when he’s not playing the roll of Spider-Man, and this is one of those times. But since they’re on the subject of rumors, he feels the need to point out: “I didn’t do it.”

When he looks up, Ariel’s shoving a strawberry in her mouth. “Didn’t do what?”

“Murder Quentin Beck.”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t care if you had.”

Harley slaps her upside the head. The strawberry falls out of her mouth.

“Ow, jeez!” Ariel scoffs, rubbing the back of her head with one hand while the other tries desperately to tug Harley down by his sleeve to wield the same punishment. “What’s the big deal? He’s a superhero. A good one, too. I’ve seen the news. Read the tweets. Watched the Youtube videos. Isn’t it his job to make moral decisions of who lives and who dies based on the well-being of society?”

The clatter of silverware hitting the plate echoes in the room before Harley’s elbows bang on the table; he cradles his head in his hands. “Oh my _god.”_ he moans. “You can’t just say that shit.”

“Well, sure I can.” Ariel shoves more pancakes in her mouth before she waves her clean fork about. “I trust your judgement, Spidey. If he deserved to die, then…” she trails off, a loss for words, the fork going limp in her grin.

Peter doesn’t really know how to respond.

“Ariel,” Harley finally says when a few beats of silence becomes a little too stifling. “Did you finish what I asked you to make last night?”

They have a bit of a stare off, because they both seem to know it’s not _really_ about getting her to finish making whatever it is she was supposed to make. Ariel seems the type that can’t be told to shut up - indirectly telling her to go away seems to be the only solution.

“Fine,” she says, gathering a few extra strawberries for the road. “I’ll be back.”

She disappears and Harley lets out a long sigh. “Sorry about her.”

“S’alright,” Peter mumbles. “Thanks for, uh. Letting me in. And letting me stay.”

Harley drinks his coffee black, and most of it in one fell swoop. “It’s fine. You’re welcome for as long as you need. And you can actually _stay_ in the house, too. We tried to get you up but you were out _cold._ Like, dead to the world. I’ve never met a heavier sleeper. Is that a Spider-Man thing?”

Before he can answer, Harley adds. “By the way, if your head hurts, blame Ariel. She tried moving your head so your neck wouldn’t hurt but she dropped you against the helmet.”

“I can hear you!” Ariel screams from another room.

“No, you can’t!" Harley screams back so loud, Peter flinches. "Now, get!”

Peter runs his finger against his scalp. “I, uh. Didn’t feel anything. If she did. It’s okay.”

Harley stares at him a beat too long before he blinks rapidly, looking off to the side. His finger traces the rim of his mug. “Right. Anyway. I’m sure you’re dying for a shower and a change of clothes. I’ll fill you in on everything Rose Hill once you’ve gotten yourself together.”

Peter snorts. “That’s not gonna happen with just a shower.”

Finally, Harley grins - wicked and yet easy, something mischievous weaved in the crookedness of his front tooth. “Then fake it ‘til you make it.”

Peter takes an excruciatingly long time to shower. His muscles feel heavy, movements like molasses. He feels the same exhaustion he felt after he climbed up the wooden coaster at Coney Island after the plane crash, only this time there’s no blood in sight. Still, it doesn’t stop him from scrubbing extra hard and staring at the drain to see if the water will turn red. 

When he’s done he puts on some of Flash’s clothes that were packed (the suitcase he brought was set neatly on top of a guest bed) and laments his whole life again as he notes everything is just a tad snug for his liking. He swears the Henley he has is gonna rip around his biceps and he’s glad he’s not around Michelle so she can tease him about it. Well, that's not true. He already misses her terribly.

As he heads back downstairs to find the Keeners an hour later, the kitchen is clean. The breakfast spread that had been set up has been replaced with what looks like a craft table. Ariel has on glasses that could rival May’s in size as she stares meticulously at a little card. Upon further inspection he realizes it’s a Tennessee State driver’s license. 

With his picture on it.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she says without looking up. “Nabbed this photo off your school website.”

Something in Peter’s stomach sinks - actually, it’s probably just his heart falling into his stomach. Liver. All of the organs. It’s that itch of realization, the one he can’t scratch, that he’ll never be able to be completely off the grid. Peter Parker or Spider-Man. 

Peter glances at the corners of the room like he’s looking for a camera, even though he knows there isn’t one. “Where’s Harley?”

“Mayor’s office,” she says, dismissively. “Something came up.” She shoves the glasses up on the top of her head before leaning over the table and asking, “Is Academic Decathlon like the thing in Mean Girls? With the Mathletes? Only all of the subjects?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She shoves the glasses back down, stares at her work. “That’s really nerdy of you.”

“Thank you?”

“No problem, Benjamin Reilly.” She pushes the driver’s his way. “Your passport and birth certificate should be ready by tomorrow,” she says, already shuffling through more papers, “but that,” she taps the card. “Will let you drive around town with no problem for now. Even though I can’t foresee a problem. It’s just a precaution.”

Peter stares at the card. Benjamin Reilly.

_Benjamin._

“Benjamin is my middle name.”

Ariel scoffs. “I _know._ School website, remember?”

“No, I know, but it’s just that it’s -”

“-your good old uncle’s name.”

Peter looks out the corner of his eye. Ben is all pearly whites, giving him a larger than life grin as he leans against the counter. He tips the coffee mug - _See Rock City! -_ Peter’s way and then he blinks and - 

Ben’s gone.

Peter barely suppresses a groan.

“- it’s what?”

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ah, nothing.”

Ariel can sense something’s wrong - she aims, but misses the mark. “The media isn’t using your middle name. No one will make a comparison. It should be fine.”

Peter blinks again. “Right, okay. But, uh, you think a fake name is necessary?” He doesn't mind _using_ one, but the idea that he needs the paperwork to go with it scares him. It means he'll be away from home for a long, long time.

He's not a fan of that plan.

She shrugs. “Just a precaution. Good to have a back up. Word tends to travel around, they'll want to know about the new guy, so this is just a script to tell them, and you'll have the proof. Christopher Reilly is the old man who brought you into town yesterday in the pick-up.”

“With Bones,” Peter says, remembering the dog. He loved that dog. 

“Yeah, Bones. If anyone asks, just say you’re his grand...nephew. Or cousin twice removed. Whatever. Get as creative as you want.”

He nods, weakly, picking up the license in his hands. Finally, a driver’s license of his own. And it’s fake. “Got it.”

“Cool.” Her head is still down. “Harley said meet him at the mayor’s office. Car’s out in the lawn, keys are in the ignition.”

Peter grips the card a little more tightly in his hands. “Uh, I would but. I don’t -” he holds up the license. “This is my first driver’s license. I don’t know how to -”

Ariel blinks in disbelief. “You don’t know how to _drive?”_

He feels properly embarrassed. “I live in New York City! I’m _Spider-Man!_ I swing. I don’t drive. _”_

“There’s pictures of Spider-Man in an Audi, they’ve popped up in the news the last few days.”

God, he really thought he'd gotten past that. “Yeah, well. I crashed that Audi. Right before I crashed an airplane. Which seemed to have ended up being the preamble to when me and Mister Stark crashed a _spaceship.”_

Her eyes go so wide, they might as well fall out of her head. “You crashed that giant donut thing!?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you go and do that?”

“Because _Spider-Man can’t drive.”_

She concedes pretty quickly. “Alright. Fair. In that case, take the truck. Harley will not want to buff out any scratches in his Mustang.”

“But -”

She holds up a hand to silence him. “You’ll be fine. This isn’t New York. There are no cops sitting around waiting to pull someone over for a ticket. There aren’t even cars around to hit. This is probably the easiest place in the world to drive. You’ll be fine. Go. I have your identity to craft.”

“Fine,” he gives up, a sag of his shoulder. She’s probably right. There isn’t anything for him to hit, except soybeans. How hard can it be? The only thing he _doesn’t_ know is, “What's he doing at the mayor's office anyhow?"

Ariel looks up, blinks once. Silence.

Then.

“Peter. Harley _is_ the mayor.”

* * *

It’s a short drive to town. Easy, too. Peter spends all of his time preoccupied wondering how Harley became mayor to worry about his driving. He even parks perfectly between the white lines and everything.

In the end, he decides that Harley’s sister is pulling his leg about the mayor thing. Who is a mayor at that age? How does that even happen? Why would Harley even want to do that? Peter thinks back to every single school election for class president, for homecoming queen, for prom king, captain of the robotics team, the drum majors, whatever it may be. They all had one thing in common: hardly anyone ever gave a shit. Peter gets the whole wanting to make a difference spiel - it’s why he’s Spider-Man. But he’s also Spider-Man under his own law; so technically a vigilante. But like, a good vigilante. A boy-scout grade vigilante. Until the Vulture. And Thanos. And Beck. And the terrorism charges -

Okay. Peter really needs to get out of his head.

The mayor’s office is nothing special: a small quaint building on the edge of the downtown square. It stands out with it’s white painted brick and small garden, but other than that. Pretty simple. When he walks in, it’s much like the living room of a house, except there’s an old antique desk with the cutest old lady sitting behind it.

“Hi, baby,” she says when she walks in. “You must be Harley’s friend. He’ll be out in a minute. He’s in a meeting.”

Peter tries to digest this information, he really does. It’s tough to swallow, though. “So,” he adjusts the baseball cap he took from the Keener’s mudroom before he left. He knows it’s probably polite to take it off, but he’s scared. “Ariel wasn’t kidding? He’s - Harley’s really the mayor?”

She chuckles. “Yes, it’s all a bit topsy-turvy on the surface here in Rose Hill. But I promise you, he’s mayor for a reason. Ain’t enough sunlight in the day to tell all the good that boy did after the Decimation. He really saved this town when everyone vanished.”

That’s sweet and all. But all Peter can think about is, “So it’s not like Ice Town.”

“Hey,” Harley appears from beyond. “I take full offense. It’s nothing like Ice Town. The opposite of Ice Town. It’s _Fire Town._ I’ve definitely gone over two months without coming close to impeachment.

The man next to him, the one he must have had a meeting with, laughs heartily. He looks like a stereotypical farmer of the south - overalls over plaid. “Town could use some excitement. Hasn’t been any fresh gossip in awhile. I can start a petition, if you want.”

Peter tries to pretend he himself isn't fresh gossip.

Harley rolls his eyes as the man laughs harder. It’s contagious, and Peter finds himself barely containing a snicker as well. 

“You got too much work to do,” Harley says, giving the guy a friendly shove. “But yeah, you keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll look over the numbers and get in contact with the distributor. It’s likely an input error in the system. I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks, Harls. You’re the best.”

“I know.” His gaze glances very briefly at Peter. “And, Ron?”

The man stares at him and Peter shrinks a little under his gaze. “Ah. That’s him, huh?”

Peter feels himself go white.

“Benjamin Reilly, right?” Ron says, and something akin to hope stirs in his gut. “Topher’s nephew or something of the like, yeah?”

Peter nods.

Ron stretches his hand out. “Nice to meet you, kid.” He gives a wink. “Any friend of Harley’s is a friend of mine. You need anything, anything at all, you just let old man Ron know."

"Emphasis on old."

"Kid, shut the hell up!"

Stunned, shaking his hand back is all Peter can manage as Ron continues to guffaw. When he looks over at Harley he’s nodding, like Peter’s done the correct thing. It's a strange interaction. It all feels very hush-hush. Secret government business, somehow. And somehow, not. He doesn’t really know what’s going on.

“Come on,” Harley eventually says when Ron leaves. “You look like you could use another cup of coffee.” 

From the corner of Peter’s eye, Tony sighs, scrubbing at the scruff on his chin. “Isn’t that the truth,” he says.

Harley takes Peter’s subsequent groan as an agreement.

* * *

They end up sitting in a diner not too far from the office. It’s empty, save for the waitress, which is a relief. Tony comes and goes as quickly as Ben had that morning. It gives him hope that maybe the country air is fixing his brain.

The waitress brings coffee and donuts without asking. Her name tag reads _Wendy_ and Peter thinks her smile is quite pretty, even with the major chip in one of the incisors. 

Again, Harley drinks the coffee black. Peter goes a little heavy on the creamer. “So...the mayor?”

He sighs heavily. “Yeah. It’s...yeah.”

“How’d _that_ happen?”

Harley opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a sort of confused squeak of a half-assed explanation cut off before it could begin. “Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s start with the Decimation. Pretty big deal, if you can recall.”

Oh yes, Peter can recall. For example, he’s spent one too many nights since he’s been back wondering why it took so much longer for him to turn to dust than it did the others. There’s no scientific reasoning to it, but Peter truly feels in his heart of hearts that he felt his every atom being torn apart. 

But that's just one facet of it, and it doesn’t seem like appropriate coffee conversation.

He clears the lump in his throat. “Uh, yeah. Big deal.”

“Well. Thanos wiped out half the universe, right? And on the surface, you don’t think much more about that statistic. You imagine every city in the world, every town, every planet that has life gets an even 50% wiped out.”

“Right.”

“And that _sort of_ happened. Especially in the big cities: New York had a 47% dust rate, Seattle had a 52% dust rate, Los Angeles and Miami both had almost a clean 50%. But you and I both know how probability works.” Harley is very animated when he talks. His hands move about the table, using salt shakers and syrup bottles and his own coffee mug to create set ups that Peter doesn’t even find necessary. “When you flip a coin 100 times, it’s not always a clean 50/50.” Harley shakes the salt shaker. “Chicago only had a 22% dust rate. Atlanta on the other hand,” Then the pepper shaker. “They had a 68% dust rate.”

Peter remembers this topic, vaguely, from school. His classes didn’t spend a lot of time on it. They were, quite literally, footnotes in his textbooks. But now that he’s really thinking about it, it makes him queasy to think there are towns and cities that lost _way more than half_ of the people they had. “So Rose Hill was…” He trails off, waiting for the rest of the story.

“Tony’s little stunt brought in _some business,_ but not a lot. It’s still rural Tennessee. No one really wants to live here. Before, we had about 1,300 people.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Peter think Rose Hill drifts a little more towards Miami than Chicago. “...and after?”

“322.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, all while doing some quick math. He nervously unravels his snap bracelet, and smacks it against his wrist. “That’s 75%.”

Harley hums. “Yeah. It was...rough. I lost my mom, and even though I’ve pretty much looked after Ariel my whole life, suddenly having to be truly, one hundred percent, _completely_ in charge of her was hard to deal with.” He taps his finger listlessly against the mug. “But I’m still glad she was here. I think losing her…or her having to live without both of us...that would be even harder.”

If he’s being honest, Peter didn’t even think of Harley’s parents until he brought up his mother. There was a photo of what looked to be their mother in one of the hallways, but Harley’s house only had three bedrooms: Ariel’s, Harley’s, and the one Peter slept in. Harley being the age he is, and with his job as mayor no less, it doesn’t seem weird that he’s living on his own. But he has his sister with him. He has a feeling his mom isn’t really _around._ “Where’s your mom now?”

“Montana.” He smiles. “Katie was 17 when she had me. Dad skipped out after Ariel was born. She was great, loved us lots and made sure we had everything we needed but she was always a little…” he trails off, moving his hand in an unsure gesture. “It was like having a big sister raise us. We all took turns kinda looking after each other.”

Peter nods, even though he doesn’t entirely comprehend. Ben and May were always young at heart, but they were as old as his parents, older even. They were constant adult figures in his life. Responsible, fully reliable. Not big brother and sisters. 

But Peter tries to piece the story together. “So when she came back, she -”

“- she _freaked_ out.” Harley lets out a long breath. “Which, I’m sure you can imagine. It was weird having half the world disappear and then have it appear the exact same way it left five years ago, sure. But man, it’s gotta be stranger for y’all.”

“Mister Stark had grey hair,” Peter blurts out without much thought; it makes Harley let out a single howl of laughter. “It’s all I could think about when I was fighting. We were on a different planet, Thanos threw a moon at us -”

“A _moon -”_

He powers on. “We lost, I turned to dust, I woke up, I thought I had dreamed it all, we were back on _Earth -”_ Peter pauses leaning forward. His eyes are wide and he feels himself on the brink of hysteria, a normal reaction when he thinks too hard about the battle at the compound. “And Mister Stark had grey hair. Lots of grey hair. It was black and then it was grey and he had _wrinkles -”_

Harley’s full on losing it now, wiping his eyes when they water with his laughter. “Right, you get it.” He finally says, expression sobering into a small smile. “It’s weird. And Katie had a hard time.”

“So she left?”

He pulls a face. “No, I wouldn’t say left. We kinda helped her along. She just. Needs time.” Harley admits. “It’s not like we never talk to her. We call her once a week. But it was just _hard._ Growing up, the one thing she always promised us was that she would never abandon us like our dad had. And then when you all came back and we were five years older -”

Peter frowns. “She felt like she broke her promise.”

Harley nods, expression pinched in regret. “It _wrecked_ her. She was a mess. Couldn’t hardly get her out of the house. Ariel and I sat her down and the three of us talked and we thought it’d be best if she took some time with an old high school friend in Montana. So that’s where she’s been the last three or four months.”

He’s not unfamiliar with the mental stress of the snap. There were one or two kids at school that came back and had to be pulled to have more time to adjust. May said the hospital had an influx of people that came in with self inflicted injuries from heartbroken people whose spouses had remarried in their absences. 

Peter remembers what Flash said, about his dad, his mom, the girlfriend he used to replace his family. And that’s just one single case. Sure, the world had been righted, but it’ll still take more time to put all the pieces of the puzzle back together. Peter misses Mister Stark, but he’s thankful his circle of friends hadn’t stayed and moved on without him. He doesn’t blame Katie’s need to be somewhere else for awhile.

“Are there, uh. Were there -” He stops short to stop his fumbling, recollect his thoughts. “Did a lot of people here have a hard time readjusting when they came back?”

Harley purses his lips, shakes his head. “No, not particularly. I know that cities, especially New York, had a huge housing crisis but it wasn’t as awful here, I don’t think? I mean, no one was _moving into_ the houses so they just sat there, and they were there when everyone got back. I did a few routine things on them, but for the most part I left them alone.”

His brow furrows. “Routine how?”

“Well,” Harley sighs, slinking into his side of the booth. He looks tired just thinking about it. “The first thing we had to do was check for babies.”

“Babies.”

Harley starts to count on his fingers. “Babies, toddlers, cats, dogs, cows, horses. We went to all the houses, checked to make sure there weren’t young kids or animals left unattended. Ariel and I did end up looking after a toddler for a few days until her grandmother could come and get her from Nashville, but really, there weren’t too many children.”

“That must have been rough.”

Harley snorts. “That was the easy part. Even if their parents are gone, babies have grandparents, aunts and uncles. Even family friends. Then it was just a matter of turning off stuff in the houses then checking up on them every few weeks. Upkeep like that, you know?"

Peter curiously notes that Harley and his town took care of the city like they expected them to come back. He imagines Harley and Ron cleaning out fridges, checking power lines, watering house plants. He doesn't know if it was just something to fill the time, out of respect for those who left, for future use, or if they really just thought one day...they'd all come back.

It's the first time Peter asks himself just how much faith the people who were left had in the Avengers, if any, to fix what had happened.

"It’s the animals that were the toughest," Harley goes on. "So many people vanished but we had _so_ many animals that stayed. I had horses in stables with no one to look after. Fields of cows. A chicken farm. I had to find places for all of them, or get people to move into those empty houses just to keep the animals safe."

“You did that?” Peter asked, astonished. He’s done his fair share of disaster herding as Spider-Man, getting people to safety when things got crazy, but he can’t imagine having to find permanent homes for dozens of animals, miles from home. “Like you orchestrated that? All by yourself?”

“God no,” Harley shakes his head. “I had help. Mr. Reilly, Ron, Tim, Leslie, Amanda - the list goes on. I just sort of. Ended up being in charge?” he winces, like he’s embarrassed to admit this. “Especially when I became the only mechanic in town.”

This is a _lot_ of information. Peter shakes his head, desperately trying to keep up. Harley sees his struggle and smirks behind his mug.

“Think of it this way. Rose Hill wasn’t the only town that really fell off the map. Duck Springs, a couple miles away? They lost a lot of people, too. Rural, farm-based towns in Tennessee _vanished_ overnight. At least population wise. But then the _crops-”_

It clicks. “ _Your_ crops didn’t die. You.” Peter blinks rapidly as Harley nods in agreement. “The upkeep must have been _insane.”_

He looks tired just thinking about it. “I went for the machines, first. Harvesters, crop sprayers, tractors, blah blah blah. So many farmers were gone and with my reputation of being able to pretty much fix _anything -”_

“It fell on you.”

“More responsibility. Yay me.” He shrugs. “I was young, too. I had the most energy, best eyes and ears, that kind of stuff. So I did a lot. But it was only at first. There was a massive rush to make sure the crops were taken care of, and lots of people pitched in. Anyone who could, really. It wasn't just us that ate this food, you know? We felt responsible. So, if I wasn’t making sure all the machines were working, I was trying to figure out where all this food went. I had to dig into a lot of personal business, hack into accounts and stuff. Ariel helped." His nose wrinkles. "She’s a little too good at that.”

A thought crosses Peter’s mind. “Are you okay with her making me a fake ID?”

“Sure. I told her to.”

“You’re the mayor. Shouldn't you...not do that.”

“You wanna go to the Raft or not?”

Peter clamps his mouth shut.

“Anyway. It worked out. It’s not like the art of farming was lost. People still knew how to grow stuff. Took some time, but we came up with a system. And when everyone came back, we came up with a new system. Which was easier. More people and all.” He shrugs before he waves over Wendy, trying to get more coffee. It’s a lot of coffee. It's Michelle Jones - Tony Stark level of coffee intake. “The mayor thing is…” he waves a hand in a weak gesture before he goes about sorting the salt and pepper shakers back where they belong. “A figure head thing. Mostly ceremonial. I dunno. Small town governments aren’t quite the same since after the Decimation, but hey. No big deal. Honest."

Peter’s pretty sure Harley’s downplaying his current role, but he lets it go. He’s only seen a few people in town but even on the way to the diner, he saw how the people of Rose Hill looked at him: they were really happy to see him. Even when he looks out the window, people catch sight of Harley and wave with enthusiasm. It’s nice.

“Hey.”

Peter looks up, waits.

“You trust me, right?”

He blinks, staring at Harley, who has his own eyes on his mug; he’s tracing the edge with his finger again, index finger almost dipping into the hot liquid. “What?”

“You trust me, right?” he repeats himself without frustration. While earlier, Ariel’s anxiety was palpable, Harley has nothing of the sort. He’s as calm as a gentle tide. Probably one of the reasons why even while he's so young, the people in town wanted him in charge. He looks good in a crisis. When Harley finally looks up, he pushes the mug aside and scoots all the way inside the booth, putting his legs up. “That’s why you came down here?”

Tony talked about Harley Keener exactly two times that Peter can recall. Once in an in depth tale of the Killian episode, and the other when Peter had mentioned colleges and SATs and college recommendations. Tony had paused in his work and said, _“That reminds me. I need to write Harley’s. Friday, make a note to have it sent with his Christmas present.”_ The conversation stuck out to Peter because even though he knew that Tony thought highly of Harley, he didn’t know how much he actually kept up with him. When Peter had asked about it, all Tony said was,

_“I keep up enough. He’s a good kid, Peter. You can always trust him.”_

“Yeah,” Peter finally says. “Tony trusted you. So...so do I.”

Harley nods. “Good. He’s right. You _can_ trust me. Tony told me about you. I know you’re a good guy. And look, I know what she said was inappropriate, but I’m with Ariel. Even if you _did_ kill him, I trust it’s because you had to.”

Peter nearly rips the handle off his mug. He glances down, embarrassed. “I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you.” Harley’s voice is calm, but Peter can’t quite decipher if he’s telling the truth or not. It's more like Harley's saying he believes in Peter's belief that he didn't murder a man. “I just need you to know that I'm on your side. Get it?”

He does, barely. Harley trusts him in the same way that Peter trust him: their connection to Tony, and both of their equal trusts in him. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good.” Harley takes a sip of his coffee. “And it’s not just me.”

“Hmm?”

The same mischievous grin from this morning comes back. “It takes a village, right?”

Peter thinks back to Ron in the office, and Christopher Reilly with the pick-up. He thinks of Ariel, who recognized him immediately, but didn’t say anything until she had taken him to where he wanted to go. “Sometimes,” he finds himself admitting.

Wendy finally comes over, pours him another cup of coffee. She tops of Peter’s, too. “We’re thicker than thieves, here in Rose Hill. Ain’t that right, Wendy?”

She smiles, and Peter can’t help but stare at her chipped tooth. “That’s right. Welcome aboard.”

Harley winks. “I got your back, man. We’re connected now. We’ll get this whole Spider-Man thing sorted out.”

From across the diner, Tony appears again, completely dressed in one of his early Iron Man suits. He’s eating a donut. “Kid’s right,” he says. There’s a sprinkle in his beard and Peter _hates_ how vivid these images are. “You two knuckleheads could probably take over the world.”

He doubts that, but seeing Iron Man does remind him of something he’s been meaning to ask. “...Hey, Harley?”

“What's up.”

“Does that suit in your garage work?”

Harley grins. “Oh, Peter. This is gonna be so much _fun_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filler filler filler  
> I wanted to explore the idea of life in those 5 years. I like the idea that some cities might not have lost a lot of people, while others were wiped out. everywhere being 50/50 isn't as interesting lol.  
> sorry that people assumed that harley had snapped and ariel was older. i know the actor who plays harley is young but I'm taking creative liberties so pretend the kid at tony's funeral was like 21ish. thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> hi.
> 
> as you can see from the tags, there's a lot more to come in terms of other characters involvement. so don't worry - flash and harley are gonna show up and have a big part, I swear. im hoping it'll be a fun time? it'll probably be a little lengthy and it's a lot of planning and writing on my part, so if you like it, PLEASE tell me you do lol. because if no one really likes it we can just drop it and move on.


End file.
